


Negotiation

by Glare



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Prequel Trilogy
Genre: Abduction, Alternate Universe - Detectives, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Serial Killers, Animal Abuse, Collars, Detective!Anakin, Dom/sub, Emotional Manipulation, Explicit Sexual Content, Extremely Dubious Consent, Gaslighting, Graphic Description, Graphic Violence, Heavy Angst, Hurt No Comfort, I Can't Believe I Wrote This, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Implied/Referenced Suicide, M/M, Murder, Neither safe sane nor consensual, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Oral Sex, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Physical Abuse, Serial Killer!Obi-Wan, Slow Burn, Stockholm Syndrome, Suicidal Thoughts, Unhealthy Relationships, Violence, no redeeming qualities here, this is gross I am gross
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-28
Updated: 2017-09-26
Packaged: 2018-08-18 06:48:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 32
Words: 86,793
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8152843
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Glare/pseuds/Glare
Summary: Over a year ago, Coruscant Police Detective Anakin Skywalker vanished without a trace while hunting the prolific serial killer known within the media as "The Negotiator". Now, Skywalker has been found and rescued from captivity in a cabin deep within the Naboo wilderness, the only known survivor of an encounter with The Negotiator. The only question on anyone's mind is: What happened during his time away?





	1. One

**Author's Note:**

> Every time you think I couldn't possibly come up with another terrible AU, I roll in the door with a new WIP.  
> This plot bunny rolls around every couple of months and bugs the shit out of me. Usually I can fend it off with a squirt bottle, but today I was in a foul mood and torturing Anakin Skywalker seemed like a good idea so I actually sat down and wrote the first chapter. Because what I need is more WIPs. Obviously.  
> This work will be terrible, contain terrible things, and have no redeeming qualities whatsoever. Enjoy.
> 
> Edit 2: Continuine to fix the formatting issues. I am debating divorcing Microsoft Word, at this point.

He pulls against the cuffs, an exercise in futility. They’re chained to the tabletop, holding him here. He knows he’s not going anywhere; it doesn’t stop him. He pulls and pulls, feeling the cold metal bite against his flesh. They dig and dig as he tugs and tugs, peeling skin back from the muscle beneath. Blood drips hot down onto the smooth surface of the table, carrying its familiar, iron-sharp scent.

These cuffs are nothing like his cuffs at home, with their supple, dark leather and soft lining. They’d clung to his wrists, holding him in place, and he could writhe against them without fear of leaving anything more than bruises. _He’d_ liked to watch him squirm, grinning down at him with a predator’s smile, eyes set aglow in the pale moonlight.

God, he wants to go home.

Home, to the cabin back out in the woods, with their two dogs and the neighbor girl who sometimes hiked over to deliver freshly baked sweets. She would get lonely when her parents went out and knew he would never turn her away because sometimes, when _He_ had errands to run, he would get lonely too. Home, where he could breathe fresh, clean air and sit on the rooftop and count the stars you can’t see through the smog of the Coruscant sky. Home, with their too-small shower and the bed that creaked if you rocked it the wrong way. Even that room, the one he’s not supposed to enter but sometimes crept in anyways, where he could watch _Him_ work—watch the pieces of _His_ design come together. Where bloodstained hands would card through his hair and _He_ would whisper soft words of comfort in his ear when it all became too much.

He’d even take that, now, over this. Over this cement room with its bare, white walls, just the wrong side of too-cold. Over the fluorescent lights that sting at his eyes and the incessant pounding in his temples and the nakedness of his throat.

The cuffs won’t let him reach that far, not without a bit of creative finagling, and he’s almost glad. He’s almost glad, because to reach up and feel the empty space where _His_ collar should be would make it all real. They took it off him, he knows; he’d watched numbly as men with gloved hands dropped it into a plastic evidence bag and carried it away. Still, to acknowledge its disappearance would be to acknowledge that this, all of this, is more than another night terror. If he doesn’t acknowledge it, he can keep on pretending that this isn’t real, and that any minute now _He_ will shake him awake. He can wait. He can be patient. It’s only a matter of time.

The world is soft around the edges of his vision, fading in and out at random. He can’t remember the last time he ate; there’s a cup of water leaking condensation on the table that he hasn’t touched since it was placed there. Every couple of hours, somebody will come by and offer to take him to the bathroom, but he hasn’t had to go the last few times. You can’t expel anything if you aren’t taking anything in. The blood loss, he notes absently, watching the red liquid mingle with the small puddle around his cup, probably isn’t helping matters.

He drifts, slipping in and out of consciousness, vaguely aware of when somebody opens the door to check on him. His hazy mind distantly registered shouted words, the feeling of the cuffs unlocking, the sharp bite of a needle in his arm. It’s all far away, like he’s watching them through frosted glass. Vague shadows and distorted words. He drifts.

“….ect…Sk…er?” Someone is calling him. “Detec…Sk…lker? …n…ou…hea….me? Detective Skywalker?”

The world swims into focus with the touch of someone’s hand against his. It’s not _Him_ , he knows, even before the mist has fully dissipated. _His_ hands are dry and calloused from rough pages and hard labor. These hands are smooth, well-kept. Long nails scratch at his skin and he jerks violently away, insomuch as the cuffs will allow. The pain isn’t as bad as it was before he lost consciousness; someone bandaged his wrists while he was out.

There’s a woman before him, seated in the chair opposite. She’s familiar in the way most of the people he’s seen so far are familiar, but the effort it takes to drag their names from the long-disused corners of his mind he’d stored them in hadn’t seemed worth it. Not when he could be using that energy trying to figure out how to get home. He can’t really avoid it now, though, with one of them sitting right there.

“Detective Skywalker?” She asks again, gentle and soothing in a way that sets his teeth on edge. “Are you back with us, Anakin?”

It’s her eyes that eventually spark recognition. They’re blue—darker than _His_ —and filled with a compassion that’s only surface deep. He sees the gears grinding behind those eyes, trying to figure him out. Trying to put the pieces of him together like he’s a jigsaw puzzle with blank faces and no corners and if she can just find the pattern, maybe she’ll be able to see just what he’s become.

“Doctor Che,” Anakin growls, disused voice cracking around the syllables.

Vokara Che: the department’s resident psychiatrist and all-around pain in Anakin’s ass. He’d spent a great deal of time in her office, in years prior. Police work isn’t easy, even for the most experiences officers. Especially for officers whose mothers were murdered in a botched robbery when they were too small to do anything about it.

Che gives him a smile better suited to a wounded animal than a grown man, but Anakin supposes that’s what they see him as, now. Feral, wounded, crazed. They’d pulled him off the first officer to arrive on the scene and scraped blood out from beneath his nails. A thought of whether they intend to put him down passes by.

“You remember me,” Che confirms, “that’s good. Some of the others said you didn’t seem to recognize them. I was concerned we might have been dealing with some memory loss.”

Anakin chuckles, a rasping noise, considering his dry throat. He still doesn’t reach for the water. “I remember. I just didn’t want to talk to them.”

“Why not? You’ve been missing for over a year, Anakin. I would think you would want to talk to your friends.”

The response catches in his chest—croaked, desperate words. “I want to go home.”

Her eyes are pitying but her grip is firm when she reaches out and takes hold of his hands. He tries to flinch away, but she won’t let him go. “Detective Skywalker,” she implores, and Anakin wishes she’d stop calling him that. He hasn’t been Detective Skywalker in a long time. “You are home.”

She’s right, in a way. This place, this job, these people—they had all been his home, once. Not now, though. He’s not Detective Skywalker anymore. He’s Anakin, Ani, Dear One.

Everything is alien, now, and he doesn’t like it. It’s confusing. Too much. It feels like two people are vying for control in his mind; two opposing lives trying to coalesce inside his memory.

A whine slips from his lips, and Vokara still doesn’t release him. “Detective Skywalker, I need you to talk to me.” When he doesn’t respond, she tries again. “I need you to tell me about the man who held you,” Vokara urges. “I need you to tell me about Obi-Wan Kenobi.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All aboard the "I'm Going Straight to Hell for This" Express.


	2. Two

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter contains description of a crime scene. Just so you know.

**One Year Earlier**

When the phone rings, Anakin answers it. He stumbles out of bed, already scrambling for a pair of clean pants by the time he’s picked it up. Any other time of year, and he might have let it ring. Silenced it, and let them call some other poor shmuck; it’s his day off, after all. Not today, though. Not now. He’s been anticipating this call since the weather took a turn, since the first frost. He’s watched the neighbors hang Christmas decorations and listened to the carols on the radio and waited with baited breath for the call that would inevitably come.

It’s here now, as Anakin pulls a shirt that doesn’t smell terribly stale over his head, tripping over Threepio curled on the rug in the process of stumbling to the kitchen for a cup or three of coffee. It’s not even dawn yet; he would curse whoever was out and about early enough to stumble upon what pulled him out of bed at this hour, except that the local paparazzi are unlikely to beat him there after a long night of photographing the drunken exploits of Corucant’s upper class. Less cameras and less questions means more work can get done.

 “I’ll be there in twenty, Quin,” he says into the receiver before hanging up the phone.

Pleasant coffee smell fills the apartment’s small kitchen, helping to chase away the lingering weight of sleep. Anakin grabs the bag of dog food from its place in the cabinet, pouring it into a bowl and whistling for Threepio.

The mutt appears in the kitchen, but doesn’t eat when Anakin places the bowl on the floor at his feet. Instead, the dog glances between it and Anakin, as scandalized a look as a dog can wear on his expressive face. _Breakfast? At this hour?_ That look says, and Anakin moans in despair. When he’d gone to the shelter in search of a dog, he’d wanted something laid-back and intimidating to look at. A man’s dog, his friends would say. What he’d left with was Threepio, a golden-furred neurotic of indeterminable breed. The pitiful creature had been on death row, too high-maintenance for the average owner, and Anakin hadn’t been able to say no.

“Come on, Threepio,” he pleads. “It’s just for today. We’ll be back on schedule tomorrow, I promise.”

Threepio is unmoved by his distress, giving the bowl of kibble one last disdainful look before padding back into the bedroom.

“Fine,” Anakin huffs, setting the bowl back on the counter. “We’ll do this the hard way.”

The last of the coffee has trickled into the pot by the time Anakin has found a clean travel mug, a piece of toast trapped precariously between his teeth. He transfers its contents and sets the mug on the counter to tug on his winter coat. With one last glare at the open bedroom door Threepio disappeared through, he collects his things and sweeps into the hallway.

He doesn’t go far, stopping almost as soon as he gets out the door. The hallways are narrow in the building. There’s always a draft, and the front door freezes shut in the winter, but it’s what Anakin can afford on a cop’s salary. There’s another apartment directly across the hall, and he raps on his neighbor’s door. When the first attempt goes unanswered, he knocks again.

Something crashes inside the apartment, followed by a litany of colorful language, and a heartbeat later it swings open to reveal the disgruntled face of its occupant. Obi-Wan Kenobi: 36 year old professor at Coruscant University. He’s a few inches shorter than Anakin, with blue eyes, auburn hair, and a neatly trimmed beard. Well-built for a man who spends his days behind a desk, with a voice that would earn him a killing in the radio business. Anakin may or may not have gotten off to thoughts of the man’s crisp accent in the past.

Usually, Kenobi looks like the wet dream of any being with eyes. Today, he looks a bit like something his mother’s old cat, Watto, would drag in when Anakin was a kid. Kenobi’s sleep clothes are rumpled, his hair a wreck, and deep bags hang below his eyes as he squints against the hallway’s fluorescents. His breath smells like stale tobacco; Anakin didn’t know he smoked.

“Jesus, Kenobi,” Anakin chuckles, feeling something warm pools in his gut at bearing witness to the typically impeccable man in this state. “You look like shit. What’d you do last night? Gladiatorial combat?”

The professor snorts and rolls his eyes at the comment. “Close enough. I was grading final exams.”

Anakin gives a sympathetic wince. He’s seen a few of Kenobi’s past student’s works, on the rare occasion Anakin would buy him a drink in return for small favors. Even by his standards, some of it had been atrocious.

“What can I do for you this morning, Detective?”

“Oh!” Anakin squeaks. Right, he was here for a reason. “Right. I was wondering if you would mind feeding Threepio this morning? And if you could let him out before you go to class? There’s a crime scene, and I got called in even though it’s my day off, and you know how he is about his schedule so he won’t eat for me this early and—”

A hand settles at his elbow, cutting off his rambling. Kenobi rarely touches him even though they’ve known each other for years, so the grip on his arm is effective in shutting him up. The older man smiles, warm if a bit weary. “Of course I don’t mind, Anakin.”

Anakin’s heart skips treacherously at that expression, and he stares just a beat too long before fumbling for his keyring with the hand not holding his coffee. “Right. Ok. Thanks. Yeah. I should probably give you a key, then, so you can get in and lock the door when you’re—”

He flips through the keys, growing increasingly flustered when he can’t find the spare copy to the front door. God, why can’t he have a normal interaction with this man just once?

There’s a gentle squeeze to his elbow, silencing him again, and Kenobi’s expression has morphed to one of fond exasperation. “I have your spare copy, remember? You told me to keep it, the last time I fed Threepio.”

Oh. Right. That was a thing that he’d done.

“Oh.” Anakin says again. “Ok. Well, thank you, then, Obi-Wan.”

“It’s no problem,” he replies. “Have a good day at work, Detective.”

And then Kenobi is stepping back into the apartment, shutting the door and leaving Anakin standing in the hall, blushing furiously. It takes him a full minute before his brain kicks back online, and then he’s striding down the hall to the elevator, the heat of Obi-Wan’s hand still burning against his skin.

* * *

 

Dawn is just starting to break when Anakin pulls up to the address his partner, Quinlan Vos, texted him on the way over. Already there are police cars everywhere, their flashing lights illuminating the yellow tape being strung up around the scene. _Welcome to the Coruscant Church of Christ!_ A sign at the entrance of the parking lot declares. Already there are a few gawkers, scandalized old women who were headed in early to set up for the service, but Anakin pays them no heed when he ducks beneath the tape to meet a waiting Quin.

“Are we sure it’s him?” Anakin asks, bypassing formal greeting in favor of getting down to business.

“Oh yeah,” Quin sighs. “It’s definitely him.”

Their breath mists in the brisk morning air as they follow a trail of forensic techs around to the front of the building where the scene itself is. Anakin stuffs his hands in the pocket of his coat as they walk, belatedly wishing he’d remembered his gloves in his rush.

“Twelve months in a year, and he’s got to pull this shit at Christmas time,” Quin grumbles.

Anakin’s been working the Negotiator case for as long as he’s been on the force, first as an officer and later as a detective. He’s got the pattern nailed down, now. In the weeks leading up to the holiday, the Negotiator will surface, drop three bodies, and then disappear back into obscurity for the rest of the year. This will make his fifth cycle—victims thirteen through fifteen. It’s too late for Thirteen, but Anakin might be able to save the others, this time.

The swarm of techs thickens as they near the scene: a nativity display on the church’s front lawn. Ornately carved statues portray the iconic scene, but all is not well in the manger this day. Stone animals and men surround not the infant savior, but a corpse, naked and pale where it lays on the grass. The wise men, hands outstretched in offering, bear not their gifts of frankincense and myrrh, but a heart and lungs the other delicate things found below skin. Blood splatters the lawn, trails down the arms of the statuary; a grotesque scene of the Negotiator’s design.

Their victim is male, mid to late twenties. Blonde hair, blue eyes. A match to the past victimology. His abdomen gapes open and empty, face twisted in a silent scream, eyes cloudy and unseeing. Anakin is aware of the victim’s uncanny resemblance to himself. It started during the third cycle—his first year as detective on the case. Before, there’d been no discernable pattern to the men and women the Negotiator would target. Since Anakin began leading the case, however, there’s only been these men. His unfortunate doppelgangers, his not-quite brothers.

“Techs found this earlier,” Quin says, passing him a pair of gloves and an evidence bag.

Anakin draws its contents: a single holiday greeting card, its corner stained with blood. The front features a picturesque scene of a snowy forest. The inside is blank, except for a single line of elegant script.

 _Merry Christmas, Detective Skywalker_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And so, our story begins.


	3. Three

By the time Anakin returns home, Threepio has trashed the kitchen. The garbage can is knocked over, its contents spilled across the tile floor, and the dog is covered head-to-toe in something that smell less than pleasant. He’s managed to track it all over the kitchen, but has thankfully stayed there instead of wandering into one of the other rooms, where there’s carpeting that would be significantly more difficult to clean.

“What was it today, bud?” Anakin sighs, stepping delicately through the mess and setting his files on the countertop before scooping up the cowering canine. This isn’t the first time that the dog has made a made a mess in his anxiety, and it certainly won’t be the last. There’d been a warning about it when Anakin adopted him, so it’s not like these episodes are unexpected. They’re working on it, though, slowly but surely. It’s been a couple weeks since the last incident, which Anakin considers a definite improvement. “The neighbors arguing again? The lady downstairs screaming at her cat?”

Threepio, predictably, does not respond beyond his trembling and a pitiful whine as they make their way to the bedroom and the bathroom beyond. The dog’s slightly too large to be carried comfortably, but it’s better than allowing him to track whatever the hell he’s covered in all over the apartment. At least, Anakin thinks ruefully as he deposits the dog into the shower, striping down to his boxers and climbing in after him, Threepio doesn’t mind grooming.

He’s exhausted after spending the day chasing down any leads they could find on their latest victim. They’d managed to ID him, with a couple of patrol officers having found his wallet outside the club they assume Negotiator lured the man out of. There were no cameras and the employees were less than helpful, which got them exactly nowhere. According to the man’s friends, he’d gone to the bathroom and never came back. They’d left, assuming he’d found someone to go home with. It was something he did sometimes, so they hadn’t worried until he didn’t come back in the morning.

Everything fit with the Negotiator’s usual pattern, not that Anakin expected it to vary. He’s been consistent ever since he started targeting the men who looked like Anakin. He finds some pretty, young thing and lures them out without anyone noticing. Sometimes he’ll sleep with them, sometimes he won’t, cleaning them up afterwards if he does as to not leave any evidence behind. It’s the only inconsistency in the pattern, and they’ve yet to isolate what makes him choose which ones he’ll bed. It doesn’t matter really; they all end up as the centerpiece of a grotesque tableau by the time morning rolls around.

Anakin sighs, allowing the smell of wet dog and familiar action of scrubbing Threepio down to soothe him. The department’s scheduled a press conference for the morning, and he knows Chief Yoda will expect him to speak. He hates the damn things, but with Mayor Palpatine breathing down their collective necks about wrapping this case up, he’s the only one the department can put up there without the media smelling blood in the water. Anakin’s been the department’s face since his promotion—the Darling of Coruscant, they call him in the papers. He’s got the looks, the brains, and the tragic backstory that make him the ideal mediator between the CPD and the public. His word is unquestioned and unopposed.

It’s exhausting. Half of the time, he has no idea what he’s talking about, and the other half he doesn’t even mean what he says. He stands before frightened citizens and offers false platitudes and promises of a brighter future that may never even come. They cling desperately to those words, thank him for his service, and his gut twists in shame every single time. If he were half the detective they saw him as, Thirteen would have gone home to his friends this morning instead of having his organs laid out in offering.

When Threepio is clean, Anakin towels him dry and locks him in the bedroom while he cleans up the mess in the kitchen. He briefly considers walking across the hall to Kenobi’s and offering him a drink in payment for feeding Threepio, but a quick glance at the time reveals it far too late to disturb the man. He’ll invite him tomorrow morning, he decides as he curls up in bed. It’ll give him something to look forward to during the press conference, at least.

* * *

 

“No,” Kenobi says.

Anakin frowns, brow furrowed in confusion, because he hasn’t even asked the man anything yet. The door had opened, Kenobi had looked him up and down once and, when Anakin opened his mouth to ask him about those drinks, had rudely interrupted with his abrupt comment.

“I’m sorry?”

“Your tie,” Kenobi huffs, pointing to it as though it’s a dead animal hanging around Anakin’s neck instead of an appropriately festive holiday tie. “I cannot, in good conscience, allow you to walk out of this building wearing that.”

Obi-Wan steps back into the apartment, leaving the door open in clear invitation for Anakin to follow. “What’s wrong with my tie?” He asks as Kenobi disappears into his bedroom.

The apartment is a mirror of Anakin’s own in layout. There are papers and books stacked on every available surface, a mug of cooling tea on the coffee table. Unlike many households Anakin has glimpsed in passing over the last few weeks, there are no holiday decorations to speak of. Not even a wreath. It’s a bit odd, but maybe Kenobi just hasn’t had time to put them up yet. That’s the excuse Anakin is using as to why his own apartment is so bare.

“You look like the holiday spirit threw up on you,” Kenobi calls over the sound of rustling in the bedroom.

He appears a moment later with two simple, blue ties. To Anakin’s untrained eye, they look exactly the same. He is, however, self-conscious enough to know that his fashion sense pales in comparison to Obi-Wan’s, and there is likely some subtle difference to them.

“I like my tie,” Anakin grouses while Obi-Wan alternates between holding up one tie or the other, eyeing them critically.

“You would do well to burn it,” he replies, apparently deciding on the tie in his left hand in the meantime. “It is an atrocity to mankind.”

The chosen tie is draped over his arm, the other set aside, and Kenobi reaches up to pull the sloppy knot around Anakin’s neck loose in a well-practiced movement. Anakin’s mouth very abruptly goes dry, and he struggles to answer when Obi-Wan asks after why he’s bothered with a tie today anyways. Anakin’s typical dress is far more casual, so the sudden adherence to dress code is an anomaly. A part of him is surprised that Obi-Wan has noticed the way he's dressed, but then again, they've been living across the hall from each other for going on three years now. He supposes that's just something you learn about your neighbors.

“There’s a, uh, press conference today,” he says, accepting his holiday tie from Kenobi when the man frees it from his collar. Anakin’s fingers worry the soft fabric while the smaller man pops the collar of Anakin’s shirt, apparently intending to tie the new one himself. There’s a blush starting in Anakin’s cheeks that he hopes Obi-Wan doesn’t notice. “The department’s going to expect me to say a few words.”

He stuffs the old tie in his pocket and makes an attempt at the loose ends of the new one when Obi-Wan curls it around his neck. Kenobi bats his hands away, and they fall limply to Anakin’s side as he resigns himself to this situation. He keeps his head tilted up so that he doesn’t have to see Kenobi’s look of intense concentration as he weaves a far more elegant knot into the fabric than Anakin is capable of, and keeps talking to distract himself from the inappropriate thoughts that flutter about his head. He can almost feel heat radiating off the other man, as close as they’re standing.

“The Negotiator dropped another body last night. As lead detective on the case, the department’s going to expect me to say a few words about the case. What we found, how we plan on stopping it from happing again, that we’re closing in on the guy who’s doing this.”

He doesn’t see when Obi-Wan’s hands falter in their pattern. “Are you? Closing in on him?”

Anakin barks a bitter laugh. “Of course not; this guy hasn’t given us anything to work with. But I can’t well go up there and say ‘sorry everybody, but two more of you unlucky saps are going to end up dead this holiday season’ now can I? It’d send the public into a panic.”

“No, I suppose you can’t,” Obi-Wan says with a soft chuckle, finishing the knot and smoothing the tie down. “There. Now you’re presentable. The blue brings out your eyes.”

Anakin swallows against his dry throat and finally works up the strength to look at the man. Kenobi is smiling at him, and it’s a pleasant smile except for the edge that Anakin can see below it. There’s something about that smile that makes his stomach flip—a certain smugness that Anakin really can’t think about when he’s about to go stand before the population of Coruscant.

“Thank you,” he squeaks, and steps away, intending to make a break for the door.

Obi-Wan catches him before he can get very far. “Was there something you needed, Anakin? Beyond a fashion intervention, that is?”

The teasing words, a reminder of what just occurred, don’t help to settle his nerves, but he forces out his original purpose for showing up at Kenobi’s door this morning anyways. “I was wondering if you wanted to have drinks later? As a thank you for feeding Threepio yesterday?”

“That sounds wonderful. You can just come over when the media finally lets you go. I have papers to grade, so I’ll be here.”

“Ok,” Anakin says, and Obi-Wan doesn’t give chase when he steps away this time. “I’ll see you tonight then, Professor.”

“Be safe, Detective.”

* * *

 

Quinlan is waiting when Anakin arrives, looking quite dapper in a sleek, black suit and matching tie. As Anakin’s partner, he’ll be on stage with him, but likely won’t say very much. The talking usually falls to Anakin. Quin just gets to smile and look pretty—something he’s very good at.

“New tie?” Quin asks, falling into step when Anakin reaches him. Together they weave their way through the crowded station toward the briefing room, where the conference will be held. “I was expecting you to wear that red and green monstrosity you wore last year.”

“What is it with everyone and my tie today?” Anakin huffs, disgruntled. At Quin’s confused look, he elaborates. “I tried to wear the tie. I got as far as the hallway, and my neighbor made me take it off. Called it an 'atrocity to mankind' or something. This one’s his.”

“Your neighbor?” His partner asks with a raised brow. “You mean the hot neighbor, Kenobi? The one you’re always telling me about?”

There’s something in the tone of Quin’s voice that makes Anakin side-eye him as they walk. “Yeah, Obi-Wan. I don’t know what other neighbor you’d think it was, considering I don’t talk to anybody else.”

“He knew you had a conference today? And he leant you his tie?”

“Yes?”

Quinlan snorts with aborted laughter and Anakin’s eyes narrow. “What, Quin?”

“Man,” his partner murmurs, voice dropping as they enter the crowded room to avoid any eavesdropping, “you are so fucked.”

Anakin scowls. “What the hell does that mean?”

“It means exactly what it sounds like! You. Are. So. Fucked. You’re about to be on national television, Anakin, and you’re wearing Kenobi’s tie. Even if they don’t know it, the whole nation is going to see you wearing you neighbor’s tie.” Quin yanks on it, as though Anakin might have forgotten which tie he’s speaking of somewhere between the apartment and the station. “If that’s not making a statement, I don’t know what it. He might as well have just pissed all over you.”

“Quinlan!” Anakin squawks, louder than he intends, drawing the eyes of the closest reporters as they take their seats. He flushes, and is careful to keep his voice down when he hisses, “Obi-Wan isn’t like that. Besides, even if he was into men, he sure as hell wouldn’t be interested in me. We’ve been neighbors for like three years, and he hasn’t shown even the slightest bit of interest. I’m just the loser across the hall with the neurotic dog and terrible taste in ties. He was just being helpful.”

“The way you’re always mooning over him, I bet you just stood there and let him put it on you, didn’t you?” Quinlan continues as if he didn’t even hear what Anakin said. Anakin’s face burns with the intensity of his blush, and Quinlan’s grin is wide with delight. “Oh, you did! Skywalker!”

Thinking back on it—on Obi-Wan’s insistence that Anakin change, on knotting the tie himself, on the smug smile he wore when Anakin finally went on his way—he thinks Quinlan might actually have a point. And isn’t that a terrifying thought? What the hell would have brought on this sudden interest?

“I’m supposed to have drinks with him tonight,” Anakin whispers, trying and failing to calm his flush as Mayor Palpatine catches his eye, gesturing for them to join he and Chief Yoda at the podium as the conference is about to begin.

“Oh yeah,” Quin cackles from just behind Anakin’s shoulder. “You are definitely fucked.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Obi-Wan isn't going to let you look bad when you're going to be talking about his work of art, Anakin. Them's the breaks.


	4. Four

“We know the perpetrator is a middle-aged white male, approximately six feet tall,” the miniature Anakin on the television says. “We also know that, according to his pattern over the last four years, the Negotiator will attempt to take two more men—”

“Why do they call him that?” Obi-Wan asks, so quiet it could almost be to himself.

Anakin looks up from his bottle, the beer within barely touched in his anxiety. “I’m sorry?”

“‘The Negotiator’. Why do they call him that?” Kenobi asks again. “I’ve never understood.”

“There was an officer, during the second cycle,” Anakin explains, “that we think actually caught the guy in the middle of putting up one of his displays. It was the middle of the night, but he could see that the victim was laying around, butt naked. He thought it was suspicious, and when he went to investigate he ran into our guy.

“Rather than panicking, attacking the cop like somebody else might have, he just talked. Told him this story about how his buddy got piss drunk and called him about skinny-dipping in the pond at the park, and how he’d come to collect him. The officer was new, and kind of stupid, and he fell for it. Let him go with a warning about public indecency to pass on. He told us what happened the next day, after the body was found strung up in a tree like some sort of fucked up tree topper. Of course, the media found out pretty quick and dubbed him _The Negotiator_ : the serial killer who talked his way out of a murder charge.”

Obi-Wan hums thoughtfully. “An apt title, I suppose. A shame your officer didn’t have more to give you, though.”

“I know,” Anakin huffs. “I mean, I was only an officer myself at the time, but it would have been a lot more helpful if he’d been able to give us a physical description. Too dark out there for him to really see anything, though…”

Anakin sighs and sets his beer on the coffee table, relaxing back into the couch cushions for the first time that night. He and Obi-Wan are seated on opposite ends of the couch; the other man, apparently aware that Anakin is in need of space at the moment, has not made any attempt at closing the distance between them. Anakin has caught his eyes darting occasionally to the tie that still hangs around Anakin’s neck, however. It’s not quite conformation of Quin’s theory, but it has definitely made relaxing more difficult than it usually is.

Kenobi has gone through three bottles already, the fourth in his hand. He still looks like shit, though Anakin hasn’t said anything about it. The bags under his eyes make it obvious that he hasn’t been sleeping, and the apartment definitely has a tobacco smell lingering that wasn’t there the last time Anakin came over. He wants to ask, wants to make sure his friend is ok, but can’t help but wonder if it would be overstepping a boundary. Not that there are many boundaries left, considering what occurred that morning.

“So,” he says when they fall into an awkward silence. The tiny Anakin on the television is still talking, neither is paying him much attention. Obi-Wan has taken to staring into the distance, taking pulls from his bottle. He turns to Anakin when he speaks, though, so there’s that. “I, uh, noticed you don’t have any holiday decorations up. Falling behind this season?”

Obi-Wan scoffs. “I don’t celebrate the holidays. Haven’t since I was twenty-five.”

“Oh,” Anakin says weakly. There’s a story there, but he wouldn’t press if Obi-Wan wasn’t willing to freely offer it.

It’s a minute before the other man speaks. He fishes a pack of cigarettes from his pocket in the meantime. “Do you mind if I smoke?” Kenobi asks, and lights it when Anakin indicates that he doesn’t.

“My father died when I was twenty-five,” Kenobi sighs, blowing a pillar of smoke into the air. “It was right around this time of year. He was walking home by himself, and saw some guy getting roughed up by a couple of gangbangers in an alley. He tried to step in and help the guy.”

“He sounds like he was an honorable man.”

“He was fucking stupid,” Obi-Wan snarls. “He should have done the sensible thing and called the police. Instead, he got a knife in the stomach for his troubles and bled out before help arrived.”

Anakin flinches at the resentment in his voice, the harshness of his tone, and Obi-Wan softens immediately. “My apologies, Anakin,” he says quietly. “I shouldn’t have shouted; I think I’ve had a bit too much to drink for this discussion.”

“It’s fine. You… obviously have a lot bottled up there. Better for you to get it out than to leave it to fester. It can really mess you if, if you hold it in.”

Obi-Wan raising a questioning brow. “Are you speaking from personal experience, Anakin?”

“My… my mother died when I was nine,” Anakin admits, staring at his hands. “Armed robbery gone wrong. I was over at a friend’s at the time. The cops figured one of the robbers got jumpy, shot her by accident. They left after that—scared them so bad they ended up not even taking anything important.”

“I’m sorry,” Obi-Wan murmurs, and he’s suddenly a _lot_ closer than he was when Anakin started his story. “Were you… I mean… did you—”

“Did I find her?” Anakin asks stiffly, and Obi-Wan gives him an apologetic look, apparently realizing belatedly that he shouldn’t have asked. “No, I didn’t. We had neighbors. The Lars family. The father, Cliegg, heard the shots and went to go make sure everything was ok. He found her... I ended up living with them until I was old enough to get out on my own. They were... nice. But they weren't my mom, you know?”

An arm wraps around Anakin’s shoulders, pulling him to Kenobi. He doesn’t resist, the stress of the day and the evening’s revelations exhausting him. Obi-Wan holds him close, Anakin’s earlier discomfort put aside in favor of friendly contact.

“I’m sorry that happened to you,” Kenobi whispers. “It must have been quite difficult.”

“No more difficult than what you went through.”

“Anakin, you were _nine_. That’s quite a bit different than what I experienced.”

“You should still talk about it, though,” Anakin sighs. “I meant it. Holding that in… it’s not healthy.”

Obi-Wan leans away, and for a minute Anakin thinks he might have scared the man off. He doesn’t go far, though, just reaching over to put his cigarette out in the ashtray.

“I will endeavor to make a better effort to communicate my feelings,” Kenobi says, and in the next moment Anakin finds his head being titled to another angle with the hand previously on his shoulder, Obi-Wan pressing cigarette-stale lips against his.

He gasps in surprise, and Kenobi takes the opportunity to slip his tongue into Anakin’s mouth. The man’s free hand settles at his waist, effectively boxing him in against the sofa.

For a minute, Anakin kisses him back. He kisses Kenobi and relishes in the aftertaste of cheap beer and expensive cigarettes, in the scratch of Obi-Wan’s beard against his skin, in the firm grip the man has on his jaw as he holds Anakin in place—liable to, perhaps, bruise come the morning.

Then reality crashes back in, and he’s shoving the man off him with a distressed noise, leaping to his feet. As attractive as he finds Kenobi, now is not the time. Obi-Wan is drunk, or well on his way there, and Anakin is in the middle of catching a serial killer. Neither of them are in the right place to be making these kinds of decisions.

“I should go,” he sputters, already making his way out the door.

Kenobi doesn’t give chase, but the sound of something crashing in the man’s apartment follows Anakin into his own.

He heads straight to the bathroom, ignoring Threepio’s concerned whine in favor of splashing water on his face in attempt to calm down. Afterwards, he looks up and catches his own reflection in the mirror.

He’s still wearing Kenobi’s fucking tie.


	5. Five

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've had this chapter written... since I started this story, basically, which is why it's up so fast. I just needed everything that worked up to this point. Hope you like it!
> 
> Also: there is animal abuse mentioned in this chapter. So you are warned.

He and Kenobi don’t speak for five days, following their encounter in the older man’s apartment.

Anakin spends them dodging Quinlan’s questions about how the evening went, chasing empty leads on their killer, and avoiding looking at the tie he’s stuffed into one of his drawers. He hasn’t had the courage to return it yet; the idea of walking back across the hall and initiating conversation after his abrupt departure is terrifying. It is, of course, all Kenobi’s fault—the man shouldn’t have just kissed him like that—that Anakin no longer has any idea of where they stand with each other.

On the fifth day, there’s another body.

On the fifth day, Anakin steps into his childhood home for the first time in over fifteen years. Following the news of his mother’s murder, Anakin had elected not to collect his things himself, instead allowing the Lars family to bring him his belongings to the room he was to share with Cliegg’s son, Owen. He didn’t want to see the house without his mother’s vibrant presence. He didn’t want to ruin his memories by seeing the spot where she’d died. He has no choice, now. Now, he looks down on a corpse and feels his head spin with the reality that he is _here_.

There is a body sprawled out on the floor of the Skywalkers’ once-living room. It’s bare now except for dust and Negotiator’s grizzly design; no one wanted to move into a house where a woman was murdered. The victim is male, though his features vary wildly from their killer’s usual target. This man is older, with greying hair and heavy lines about his face. His skin is covered in shoddy, faded prison tattoos ad scars that almost glow in the evening light. He lies on a bed of aged newspapers, proclaiming headlines nearly twenty year old on their yellowed pages. The man’s heart, crudely carved from his chest, lays in his outstretched palms like an offering.

There is no need to search for identification; Anakin would recognize this man anywhere.

Even worn with age, his features are distinguishable—one never forgets the face of the man who murdered their family. Anakin had sat in court for days and listened to his testimony, listened as he’d ratted out his partner in exchange for a lighter sentence. The other burglar had died in a prison brawl, but this one had kept his head down, served his time, and been released a few years ago on good behavior. Anakin had been furious at the time, but now he just feels something like pity. This man had served his time, paid his penance. Even though Anakin will never truly forgive him for takin his mother away, he didn’t deserve this.

“The library called this morning,” Quinlan says from where he stands at Anakin’s shoulder. “Told us somebody broke in last night and stole a big stack of archived newspapers.”

“Any chance their cameras caught the guy getting in or out?” Anakin asks.

“Nah. Sent a couple officers to look it over, but the security over there isn’t exactly the Senate Building, you know? Plenty of blind spots to sneak through, if you knew where they are.”

“Right,” Anakin sighs.

“Was wondering why the hell anybody would steal newspapers,” Quin scoffs. “Guess we know.”

“Yeah…”

Anakin glances up at the wall behind their victim. _For your loss_ , has been painted there, presumably in their victim’s blood. He’s getting tired of this—of the Negotiator’s fixation on him. First with the victims that shared his features, and now this. He doesn’t want to deal with it any more. It’s exhausting. He’s tired of people dying for him.

Quinlan looks at him, concerned. “You alright, partner?”

“Yeah. Just been a long week, is all.”

Anakin’s attempt at a reassuring smile must fall flat, because Quin pats him gently on the shoulder. “Why don’t you go on home? We can handle this one without you. I’ll call you later if we find anything.”

“Thanks, Quin,” Anakin sighs and promptly flees out into the light of the setting sun.

* * *

 

Anakin’s head is a mess. This thoughts feel viscous, his mind foggy. He allows his feet to carry him back to the apartment on instinct, and he almost makes it there without incident. He’s right around the corner from the safety of his apartment when he hears it, though: a pained yelp emanating from the alleyway he’s passing.

Peering into the darkness, Anakin spots them: two men, one with a knife, towering above the shaking form of a small dog. The canine’s grey and white fur is spattered with blood that is obviously not the men’s. The smart thing to do would be to call the police, or call for help. But with the way they’re hovering over the dog, Anakin doesn’t think anyone would arrive in time to help. And Anakin? Anakin's had a really shitty day, and he's not quite thinking straight. So he doesn't call anybody, and instead stomps down into the alley without a second thought.

One of the men strikes out at the dog again, undoubtedly breaking bone when his boot connects with the dog’s foreleg, and it lets out an agonized keen. They laugh, as though watching the thing suffer is funny.

"Hey! Assholes!" The men turn as one, away from their defenseless victim and toward the bristling detective. "What the fuck is your problem?"

"Mind your own business, kid," the one with the knife snarls, brandishing his weapon. "Get out of here, or you're going to get hurt."

"I'd like to see you try," Anakin growls.

It is, in hindsight, a terrible idea. Anakin is unarmed, outnumbered, and not all together after the Negotiator's latest crime scene. He does manage to get a few good hits in before the unarmed one lands a punch, splitting his lip and sending him stumbling. Anakin only just manages to bring his arm up in time to block the swing of the other’s knife, and the short blade carves a long line into his right arm instead of his neck. He falls backwards into the alley's wall, knees giving out with the pain, and his attackers tower over him like executioners.

There's an angry snarl right around the time someone shouts, "Anakin!" and the unarmed man howls in agony. The dog has managed to get to its feet, coming to Anakin's rescue the way he had come to its, sinking sharp teeth into their attacker's calf and not letting go. The second man turns to aid his companion, only to be knocked away by something much larger than a dog. The man's knife skitters away in the impact, leaving him unarmed. For a minute the two figures grapple, then Anakin hears the _snick_ of a pocket knife opening, and the second attacker joins his companion's shrieks of pain.

The first man manages to shake the dog loose and flees the alley; his companion is close behind, clutching at a wound in his shoulder. Anakin watches them go until a wet nose presses against his uninjured arm, and he turns to find the dog at his side. The poor thing is bleeding from a few cuts, and it's holding its broken foreleg at a delicate angle, but it still nuzzles at him as though to ascertain his condition.

"Hey there," Anakin slurs, reaching out with his uninjured hand, previously cradling his injured arm to his chest, to scratch behind its cropped ears. "You're a loyal one, aren't you?"

It wags its tail as if in agreement, long tongue lolling out of a wide mouth. It looks a bit silly, in his current daze, and Anakin finds himself chuckling weakly.

His other rescuer has, in the meantime, approached. Now that he’s close enough for Anakin to make out his features, he realizes that it’s Obi-Wan. The other man crouches before Anakin, breathing heavily with the exertion of his fight, a panicked look in his eye and a bloody knife in one hand. The other hovers just above Anakin’s bleeding arm, as though desiring to touch, to gauge the severity of the younger man’s wounds. Kenobi reaches up and cups his face instead.

“Anakin?” He asks, hushed if slightly frantic. His hands are smeared with the attacker’s blood. “Anakin, are you alright?”

The last time Obi-Wan touched him like this, he’d kissed him. Anakin absently thinks that he wouldn’t mind if Kenobi kissed him right now; it would be a welcome distraction from the pain radiating from the gaping wound in his arm.

“Anakin?” Kenobi asks again, this time more audibly worried. “Anakin, please, I need you to answer me.”

“Hurts…” He chokes out, and Kenobi gives him a beautiful smile.

“Yes,” the older man says, near breathless with relief. “Yes, I’d imagine it does. We can fix that, though.”

“Yeah?”

“Of course.” Kenobi releases his hold on Anakin, folding his knife back up and stuffing it into his pocket before reaching out and hooking his hands under Anakin’s armpits. He pulls the younger man to his feet, and makes to help him walk out of the alley.

“Wait,” Anakin huffs, “wait. We can’t leave him.”

“Leave who, Anakin?”

“Artoo. We can’t leave Artoo. He’s hurt, too.”

Kenobi looks between him and the creature at Anakin’s feet. “Is that the dog’s name?”

“Is now… They obviously don’t want him, an’ I like him.”

 Obi-Wan’s face screws up in exasperation before he sighs, apparently resigning himself to bringing along the mutt. “Do you think you can walk on your own?”

Anakin considers the question for a moment before nodding. Obi-Wan slowly relinquishes his grip, waiting a moment to make sure Anakin isn’t about to topple over before bending down and scooping up the injured dog.

“Come on, then. I have a first aid kit in my apartment.”

* * *

 

“Drink this,” Obi-Wan instructs, unscrewing the cap of a water bottle and placing it on the table in front of Anakin. He reaches for it with his free hand while Kenobi settles in the chair next to him, drawing the first aid kit and Anakin’s injured arm closer before he sets to work. The water is a blessing—blood loss has a tendency to make one thirsty—and he’s downed most of the bottle before his lungs complain and he’s forced to pause for breath.

“You’re lucky this wasn’t deeper,” Kenobi chides, carefully cleaning the cut along the length of his forearm with an antiseptic wipe. “You shouldn’t have tried to engage those men on your own.”

“Lucky you and Artoo were there to give me a hand,” Anakin replies.

Artoo is currently locked in the bathroom, where he won’t track blood over Kenobi’s apartment while Obi-Wan sees to Anakin. Anakin is already leaving enough blood on everything for the two of them. It’s obviously agitating Obi-Wan, but the man’s hands are surprisingly steady as he works.

“Lucky, indeed.”

Obi-Wan gives Anakin an indecipherable look before going back to his work. The air smells like disinfectant, and Obi-Wan’s brows are furrowed in concentration. They haven’t been this close since the day of the press conference, Anakin making sure to keep a healthy distance between them until he can figure out exactly what it is Kenobi wants from him. Some of it’s obvious, the kiss could only be taken so many ways, but Obi-Wan had shown minimal interest in him before that. Does he want Anakin romantically? Or was he just looking for a quick fuck in his drunken state?

“I remember the first time I saw you, you know,” Kenobi sighs, almost wistfully. “It was the spring after the second cycle. That idiot Krell had just stepped down from the case, and they’d held a press conference to announce who would be taking the lead. I was just curious; why wouldn’t I be? So I watched and… there you were. Stars, you were so _beautiful_ —like you’d walked straight out of my dreams. And then you started talking about the case, and you understood. You understood more than any of them ever had.”

Obi-Wan sets aside the disinfectant and reaches for the medical gauze, beginning to wind it around the wound. There’s an exhaustion wearing at Anakin’s mind, slowing his thoughts and blurring the edges of his vision. It could just be the adrenaline finally draining from his system, but…

“I looked into you. I learned… everything that I could. Anything that was public record. I found out you’d been working the case as an officer and I couldn’t understand how I could have missed you. You’d been there the whole time and I’d never noticed! And then, of course, like the Fates intended us to meet, you moved in across the hall.” Obi-Wan chuckles, rustling around in the first aid kit for tape to hold the gauze down.

There is something distinctly _wrong_ , but Anakin can’t quite put his finger on it. His eyes trail down from Kenobi’s face to the water bottle, nearly empty, and his hazy brain begins fitting pieces together. They don’t make sense, not considering the situation, but it’s the only conclusion he can draw.

“W-What the fuck?” Anakin slurs. “Did you give me something?”

Obi-Wan doesn’t answer, smoothing down the tape with a fond grin on his face. “By the time the holidays rolled around, I’d grown quite attached to you and I thought… I had to protect you. You must understand, I’ve lost so many people. I thought that maybe, if I gave them someone else, they would let me keep _you_. Before, it was just a release—just a way to work out my frustrations over losing Qui-Gon and Satine and Siri. But you, Anakin, you gave me a _purpose_.”

“Oh,” Anakin chokes, a panicked noise, as the meaning behind Kenobi’s words soaks in. He tries to wrench his arm from the man’s grip, but he isn’t letting go. “Oh god, you’re—”

“It worked, too,” Obi-Wan continues, nonplussed despite Anakin’s sudden, horrifying realization. “For nearly three years, everything was fine. Until tonight. If I hadn’t been there, if I hadn’t intervened, you could have—”

He cuts himself off, releasing Anakin and scrubbing his hands down his face as though to wash away the horrors that are lurking behind his eyes. A dozen fates that may have befallen him, if Kenobi hadn’t jumped into the fray; a dozen worlds where Anakin doesn’t make it out of that alley alive. He would be more concerned at the man’s distress if it wasn’t entirely Obi-Wan’s fault that he’s struggling just to keep his eyes open.

Instead, Anakin pushes himself out of the chair, injured arm protesting the sudden movement. Balance is beyond him, and he only manages to make it a handful of steps before his knees give out. He catches himself on the countertop before he collapses completely, and then Kenobi is there—of fucking course he is. Obi-Wan doesn’t hesitate to drag the detective to him, hushing him like he’s a petulant child throwing a fit instead of the man’s next fucking victim trying to run for his life. God, he’s been living next door to The Negotiator for years; he _kissed_ him last week. Anakin struggles weakly in Obi-Wan’s grip in the final fleeting moments before the drugs overpower his fight-or-flight reflex; before his limbs get to heavy to move and he slumps against his captor, defeated.

Obi-Wan lets them both slide carefully to the floor, leaning back against the cabinets and cradling Anakin close to his chest, mindful of his newly-bandaged arm. “You must understand, I don’t want to do this,” he murmurs, conviction strong in his voice despite the softness of his tone. The hand not curled around Anakin’s waist slides into his hair, catching the fine hairs at the nape of his neck between Kenobi’s fingers. “I don’t want to take you from your life. I was content to be your neighbor for as long as I could—for as long as it took you to put the pieces together. But I can’t… Anakin, I can’t lose you. They took Qui-Gon, and Satine, and Siri…”

Anakin’s world fades out before he can catch whatever Obi-Wan says after, but he doesn't need to be told that he isn't going to like it when he wakes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kidnap your loved ones to prevent poor future decision-making.
> 
> Next chapter starts the next arc of this story, and will be another chapter set in the "present". I've decided that's how I want to format this. "Present" chapters set in between the breaks of "past" chapters.


	6. Six

**Present**

Doctor Che leaves in a huff, stomping from the interrogation room and slamming the door behind her. For all she used to preach about Anakin needing to better control his emotions during his early days on the force, she isn’t terribly good at handling her own. In fact, it had only taken a little bit of uncooperative behavior to send her fleeing in a fit of frustration. Anakin doesn’t know what else she expected; he isn’t going to tell them about Obi-Wan. If they want to know about the man, they can puzzle him out from pieces of the life they’re bagging and tagging at the cabin as he sits in the interrogation room.

In the end, it was dumb luck they’d been found. Some well-meaning citizen in the village had caught a radio announcement about the memorial service for missing police detective Anakin Skywalker and managed to put the pieces together. Anakin never made frequent trips to the village, there were too many ways for him to get away and it made Obi-Wan nervous, but he was always well-received when he did manage to talk his partner in letting him tag along for a grocery run or whatever else had them in town that particular day. The police had been called, the cabin located, and Anakin freed from Obi-Wan’s clutches.

It hadn’t been entirely that simple, of course. Anakin had found himself quite attached to his partner and the little life they’d built; the separation hadn’t been a willing one. He’d known, though, what awaited Obi-Wan if the man was taken into custody, and he couldn’t allow that. He couldn’t damn Kenobi to a life behind the bars of some supermax—or worse, depending on the judge and jury that tried him. So he’d jumped to Kenobi’s defense, lunging at the first officers through the door and putting up enough of a fight to distract them while Obi-Wan slipped out the back and into the woods.

He isn’t concerned for Obi-Wan. Even with all their tracking dogs and search parties, they will never find him now that he’s out amongst the wilderness. For all his manners and cleanliness, Obi-Wan is a spirit of the wilds. Anakin spent the last year listening to countless tales of a childhood while away among the trees. Of his family visiting every spring, summer, fall break. Kenobi took him out to follow the deer trails and camp beneath the stars. No one knows those hills like Obi-Wan. Kenobi will be fine, and eventually, he’ll come back for Anakin. If he can’t get away to meet Obi-Wan sooner, he just needs to wait it out.

A soft rap comes at the door, and Anakin pulls himself from his introspection in time to watch Quinlan Vos walk into the interrogation room. Vos looks a mess, though that is to be expected. When the police raided the cabin, he’d insisted on being the first one in the door. He’d thought he could, perhaps, help keep Anakin calm with a familiar face. It’d been a dire miscalculation, and he’d been unfortunate enough to bear the brunt of Anakin’s assault. As such, the other man’s exposed skin is a mess of bruises and bandages. He’s got a bundle of medical supplies in his hands—likely to change the bandages around Anakin’s wrists, which had turned a rusty orange color over the course of Vokara’s interrogation. Vos watches Anakin warily as he settles in the seat Che abandoned, but the fact that he’s in the room at all is more than Anakin expected considering their rocky reunion.

“Hey, partner,” Vos says in that same soft tone that everybody’s been using with him since his recovery. A woman Anakin doesn’t recognize had followed him into the room, and upon noticing Anakin’s glower, Quinlan hastens to introduce her. “Anakin, this is my new partner, Aayla Secura. She transferred over from Ryloth a couple months after you went missing.”

Aayla Secura is a tall, relatively slim woman with fierce features and dark, hazel eyes. Her hair, dyed a soft blue, is pulled neatly back. She stands at Quin’s shoulder, scowling right back at Anakin, and clearly has no desire to handle the man with kid gloves, as her coworkers have been doing. Anakin can respect her for this, and that she’s managed to keep Quin alive during Anakin’s absence. He knows firsthand how difficult that can sometimes be, with Quin having a tendency for reckless behavior that might even outshine Anakin’s on some occasions.

“I was hoping to changes your bandages and maybe have a word with you, now that you’ve cooled down a little bit,” Quin explains, reaching over to unlock Anakin’s cuffs. “Brass doesn’t want anybody in here with you alone while you’re uncuffed, though, after what happened in the cabin. Aayla volunteered to come with me in case… well…”

“In case I try to claw your eyes out again?” Anakin offers with as much false bravado as he can muster.

It draws a weak chuckle from Quinlan. “Yeah. That.”

His former partner takes one of Anakin’s wrists in his hand, slowly unwinding the dirty bandages. It reminds him of that first night, when Kenobi patched him up. Not that he would tell Quinlan that, of course. What happened between himself and Kenobi is their business.

“I really am sorry for hurting you,” Anakin sighs. “I didn’t…”

“It’s in the past,” Quinlan assures. “Already forgave you. I understand why you felt like you had to do it.”

If Anakin wasn’t already seated, he imagines his knees would have gone weak with relief at those words. So far, Quin has been the only one to show any kind of understanding for Anakin’s situation. Even Doctor Che only had so much patience for his reluctance to talk. He knows they all think he should have been stronger—should have tried harder to get away. That he shouldn’t have fallen for Obi-Wan’s manipulations in the first place, and that he should have seen the man for what he really was before this all came to pass. They blame _him_ , and a part of him wants to scream that it’s _not his fault_.

“Thank you, Quin,” he sighs, hoarse. “…How are my dogs?”

“They’re alright,” Quin says, scrubbing at the open wounds on Anakin’s wrists with an antiseptic wipe. “They’re locked in my office, at the moment. Threepio’s behaving himself, but the little one—what’s his name?”

“Artoo. Obi-Wan and I rescued him…”

“Artoo keeps trying to escape. Wants to go looking for you, I reckon. Nearly took my hand off when I dragged him back into the office.”

Anakin grimaces. “Sorry. He’s a little protective.”

Quin scoffs. “I noticed. I’d planned on looking after them until you’re back on your feet, but there’s some girl here with her dad saying she wants to take ‘em. I told her I’d ask, but as they’re your dogs, the final decision’s yours.”

“Ahsoka Tano?” Anakin finds himself asking, perhaps pathetically hopeful. It’s a long trip to Coruscant from Naboo, and he hadn’t been sure he’d ever see the teen again once he was in police custody.

“So you do know her.”

“Yeah. She was our neighbor. Used to come over when Plo was at work and hang out. She’s… probably the closest thing to a daughter I’d ever thought I’d have.”

Quin doesn’t comment on that sentiment, but there’s a strange look in his eye that Anakin can’t quite discern. “I guess that means you want her to take the dogs, then?”

“That would be great, yeah,” Anakin murmurs, then decides to throw caution to the wind and ask, “Can I see her?”

“I can’t promise anything, but I’ll ask Deputy Windu, if you really want to see her.”

“Thank you, Quin.”

The rest of their time together passes in silence. Anakin doesn’t struggle when Quin refastens his cuffs, and his old partner makes to follow Secura out of the room. He doesn’t leave, though, pausing in the doorway before turning back to Anakin.

“I feel like I owe you an apology, Skywalker,” Quin admits.

“For what?”

“For… pushing Kenobi on you, I guess.” Quinlan sighs, staring at his feet. “That day at the press conference, I said some things, and maybe I pressed to hard and forced you into something you didn’t want. I just thought, after everything that happened with Amidala, maybe it would be good for you… And then he turned out…”

“Quinlan,” Anakin snaps, the sharp tone drawing his once-partner’s eyes from the floor. “You didn’t do anything wrong, and you don’t owe me anything. My decisions, my mistakes, were my own. You had nothing to do with them. Don’t carry that blame.”

Quin smiles at him, weak with relief. “Thank you, partner.”

“Any time, Vos.”

“I’ll see what we can do about Tano,” he says, and then he slips out the door.

* * *

 

The next time the door opens, it’s to Ahsoka’s worried face. Windu stands with a hand on her shoulder, but it doesn’t stay there for long.

“Anakin,” she breathes, blue eyes wide, and Anakin feels himself choking on breath as the teen stumbles from Mace’s grip towards him.

If Anakin could, he would rise from the table and meet her. Instead, he waits impatiently for her to reach him. When she does, she’s quick to bundle him up in her arms, hugging him to the best of her abilities despite the awkward, seated position he’s stuck in. He tucks his face into the crook of Ahsoka’s neck, and simply lets himself breathe. For the first time since being taken into custody, he can almost relax. He almost feels safe, in the arms of the girl who could have been their daughter.

Mace coughs awkwardly, drawing both of their attentions. He gestures to the chair across from Anakin, and Ahsoka lets him go to take the proffered seat. Anakin doesn’t keen when she pulls away, but it’s a near thing.

“I’ll be in the hall. Knock when you want out,” Mace says, and exits the room.

Silence reigns as the pair stare at each other, taking in the sight as they try to gather their thoughts. So much seems to have happened in such little time, and they aren’t quite sure where they stand. Anakin is almost content just to drink in the sight of her. Dark skin, long hair bleached white and streaked with blue, an oversized grey hoodie that Anakin knows she stole from Obi-Wan swallowing her in its folds. She’s always valued function over fashion.

Anakin finally breaks the silence. “I’m so happy to see you.”

“I’m happy to see you, too,” the girl says, reaching over the tabletop and enclosing Anakin’s hands within her own. “I’m so glad you’re ok!”

“I’m alright, Snips,” Anakin assures. “You don’t have to worry about me. How are you holding up?”

“I saw what happened on the news, and I couldn’t believe it. I wasn’t sure Plo would even let me come, and then if they would even let me see you… It’s a lot to take in, you know?”

“I do.”

She worries her lip, staring at their joined hands. “People keep telling me about all these terrible things Obi-Wan did, but I guess I’m having a hard time accepting it. He was always warm and kind. He never seemed like he was capable of everything they’re saying….” Her eyes flick back up to him, pinning him with her stare. “I guess he wasn’t the only one that had me fooled.”

“Snips…”

“No, Anakin! Why didn’t you tell me? I thought you were just Obi-Wan’s kinda dopey boyfriend! If you really were being held there against your will, why didn’t you tell me? We were alone together so many times! We could have left! We could have gotten help!”

“He threatened you, Snips!” Anakin snaps, silencing the girl immediately. “When we first got there, he told me he’d kill you, and Plo, and anyone else I could have gone to for help. I couldn’t risk your lives like that, so I decided to just wait it out. And then, as I actually got to know you, I slowly realized that I didn’t want help. I wanted to stay. I was happy, Kenobi was happy, you were happy. How could I ruin that just because things got off to a rocky start?”

“Kenobi abducted you…” Ahsoka huffs. “Obi-Wan stole you away and kept you locked up in that cabin like the princess in some fantasy story, except your Knight in Shining Armor never came for you, so you fell in love with the dragon instead.”

Anakin doesn’t have a response to that, so he stares blankly down at the tabletop while he thinks. “Can you blame me?” He finally asks.

Ahsoka sighs, letting go of his hands and slumping back in her seat, crossing her arms over her chest. “No,” she begrudgingly admits. “If you had the chance, would you go back to him?”

“Yes,” Anakin answers, unhesitating. “If I could, I would walk out of here right now and find him. But, you know…”

Anakin tugs at the cuffs, making them jingle, and Ahsoka frowns at his terrible joke. She obviously doesn’t like the sight of him in cuffs, but there’s nothing either of them can do about it.

"The press are already trying to talk to me," she sighs. "They want my story. _The Girl Next Door._ Like they think I'm going to have some juicy details. Like I secretly knew the whole time that there was something off. But I didn't. There was never anything that gave you away... that gave _him_ away..."

“I'm sorry...” Anakin offers when Ahsoka fails to say anything else. “I told them to let you take the dogs. You’ll take care of them, yeah?”

“Of course, Anakin. You know that.”

He offers her a wobbly smile, and he can feel tears welling up. The prospect of this being the last time they see each other, maybe forever, is terrifying. Who knows when, or if, Anakin will be considered healthy enough to be out on his own. And even if he does get out, will Plo even let him see her? If Obi-Wan comes for him, what will they do? There are so many uncertainties that Anakin wants to cry. He longs for the simpler days, where they baked cookies and made themselves sick on the sugar and danced around the cabin to loud music while Obi-Wan pretended to be grumpy about it. This is too much.

“Thanks, Snips.”

She flees the room after that, giving him one last hug before being led away, leaving Anakin alone with his uncertain future.


	7. Seven

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another chapter 4 u

**One Year Ago**

Anakin wakes to the rhythmic rumbling of a car’s engine, the soft crooning of a radio, the gentle panting he’s come to associate with Threepio’s breathing. His eyelids are heavy, thoughts syrup-thick and sticky inside his mind. A dull throbbing is coming from his right arm—a muted pain associated with heavy narcotics. That’s… a little strange, but Anakin is comfortable, so he’s not going to complain. He’s floating, here, warm and relaxed. He tries to reach out, to run his fingers through Threepio’s fur, but his hands catch before they can get very far.

Reality crashes down around him as his last memories flood back in. The alley, Artoo, Kenobi coming to their rescue. Everything that happened in the apartment. He tenses, trying and failing to suppress the ragged, panicked moan that slips from his lips. Forcing his eyes open, he finds himself stretched out in the backseat of a car. It’s too nice to be Anakin’s—Kenobi’s, then. His legs are about as difficult to move as his arms, mostly because he seems to have been bundled in half of Kenobi’s linen closet before being rudely abducted. Threepio is curled in the foot well closest to his head, dozing contentedly. Anakin can’t see Artoo, but there’s a snorting, snuffling counterpoint to Threepio’s breathing that assures him that the dog is alive and somewhere in the car. Kenobi, behind the wheel, hums softly along with the radio. The scene would be almost domestic, if not for the fact that Anakin’s wrists are bound to the door by what appears to be the tie Kenobi leant him the day of the press conference.

“I apologize for the unorthodox restraint,” Kenobi says, glancing back at him through the rearview mirror. “I couldn’t find anything more suitable, beyond your handcuffs, and I worried those might chafe at your wrists.”

Obi-Wan doesn’t, Anakin notes, apologize for the fact that he’s tied Anakin up in the first place—simply for having to do it with the length of soft, blue fabric. Anakin tugs experimentally at his bindings, testing the give. They’re snug enough to keep him in place, but not tight enough to cut off circulation to his hands. Obi-Wan probably left a good two finger’s worth of space, like anybody who ties rope recreationally would know to do. The bastard.

“Still, try not to jostle too much,” Kenobi continues. “Wouldn’t want to aggravate that arm of yours. Are you warm enough? I worried you might go into shock.”

“What do you care?” Anakin spits. “You’re a fucking serial killer!”

Kenobi has turned his attention back to the road, but Anakin can practically hear the force of his frown when he speaks. “I thought I had made it clear back at the apartment that I am quite invested in your wellbeing. I care about you, Anakin. Why else would I be doing this?”

“Drugging and abducting someone is not how you show them that you care!”

“What would you have me do?” Kenobi snarls. “You nearly got yourself killed back in that alleyway! If I hadn’t arrived in time, you most certainly would have been dead!”

“I don’t know, call the police? Call an ambulance, or drive me to the hospital like a normal person?”

“If I recall correctly, you also neglected to call anyone when you saw those men, so you really have no room to argue with me on this point.”

Anakin opens his mouth to retort, but the white-knuckled grip Obi-Wan has on the wheel changes his mind. Threepio, awoken by the sound of their argument, whines concernedly and lifts his head to lick at Anakin a few times, offering canine comfort.

The windows are dark, and he can see nothing beyond them but the vague flashes of a landscape that he thinks might be forest. There are very few cars on the road to illuminate it. He thinks it’s an odd place for Kenobi to be. The older man has always been something of a showman; Anakin can’t picture him in the woods, living in the rough. Where would he iron his shirts?

Eventually, he can’t take not knowing another moment longer. “Where are we going, anyways?”

“There’s a cabin outside of Naboo that I frequent during school breaks. We will be staying there for the foreseeable future.”

“They’re going to trace it back to you,” Anakin growls. “They’ll find rental agreements, bank records. Quinlan will find me.”

Obi-Wan barks out a harsh laugh. “Oh, dear one, I’m sorry to disappoint you, but they won’t. There’s no paper trail to follow; I’m hardly so stupid as to make that mistake. The cabin belongs to one of my elder brothers, Xanatos. Our father willed it to him upon his death, but Xanatos hasn’t been out once since long before then. I suspect he doesn’t even remember that he owns it. Xanatos would never be caught dead anywhere without a nightclub within walking distance.” Kenobi snorts. “Not that Xanatos would ever deign to _walk_ to a nightclub like some commoner.”

“And when the police notice you missing, too? You don’t think they’ll make the connection? You don’t think they’ll talk to your brothers?”

“My brothers and I have been estranged for years—long before Qui-Gon’s death. Feemor didn’t even attend the funeral—busy doing mission work overseas. Even if the authorities do question them, they won’t have anything to tell, especially about my recent whereabouts.”

Anakin can feel his blood curdling in terror with every answer Kenobi gives; there really is no way Anakin can see his partner tracking them down. Nausea churns his stomach. He doesn’t want to think about this anymore.

As if Obi-Wan can read his thoughts, “We still have a few hours before we reach the cabin. I would recommend getting some more sleep.” A pause. “I can pull over and put you out again, if you don’t think you can get there on your own.”

It’s obvious that Kenobi doesn’t want to. His tone betrays that much. Likely, Anakin’s unresponsiveness had unnerved him—made him doubt himself and the belief that he’d left the younger man alive. Anakin doesn’t really want to be put under again, either; he doesn’t want to be completely helpless.

“I’m fine,” Anakin huffs. “How’s Artoo?”

“He’s alright,” Obi-Wan answers, taking one hand off the wheel and reaching over into the passenger’s seat, presumably to pet the dog. “I bandaged his wounds once you were unconscious, and splinted his leg to the best of my abilities. There’s a veterinarian’s office in the village nearest the cabin; I intend to take him to be checked out once I have you settled. You were right, you know. He really is quite sweet, once you get past the grumpy exterior.”

Anakin releases a wordless growl. He wants to snap at Kenobi to quit petting his fucking dog, but then, Artoo really isn’t Anakin’s dog. They’d literally only stolen him from those pricks in the alley a couple hours ago, and Anakin spent most of time between then and now in drug-induced unconsciousness. Kenobi was the one who cleaned Artoo up; he has just as much claim on the dog as Anakin does.

Obi-Wan’s free hand moves from Artoo to the center console, where he picks up a to-go cup emblazoned with the logo of a popular fast-food chain. The faint smell off coffee hangs in the air. Anakin would bet money that he didn’t conveniently have that in the car before they left, and it must still be warm if Kenobi’s willing to drink it.

“Did you go through a drive thru with someone tied up in your backseat?” He asks, scandalized.

“The windows are tinted,” Obi-Wan replies, as though it’s obvious. “And you were still unconscious. I needed coffee. Besides, it'd hardly be first time.”

Wiggling further down into the blankets Kenobi has swaddled him in, Anakin grumbles. “I hate you.”

“For now,” comes Kenobi’s ominous reply. “For now.”

* * *

 

Dawn has just begun to break by the time they pull up the gravel drive to what must be Kenobi’s cabin. The man himself lets out a low groan of relief, undoubtedly running on the last vestiges of energy after driving almost straight through the night following the stressors that triggered this whole event. Anakin himself is tired, having refused to go back sleep after his conversation with Obi-Wan. They’d stopped again for gas and more coffee in what Anakin assumes was the village Kenobi spoke of. He hadn’t made a fuss when Obi-Wan parked the car and left him in it with a promise of swift retribution should he try and get anyone’s attention—not that there was attention to get, in the early hour.

The dogs whine in excitement as the older man brings the car to a stop, ready for the chance to stretch their legs.

“We’re here,” Obi-Wan announces, unnecessarily.

“No shit,” Anakin replies.

Kenobi doesn’t respond, but his hands tense around the wheel before he clambers out of the car and Anakin considers how wise it is to irritate the man when he’s already on a short fuse. It’s likely a one-way ticket to the man’s next crime scene, with how exhausted Kenobi is, so Anakin decides he’s going to do it. It’d be better than spending the foreseeable future trapped in this stupid cabin with the man, trying to find a way to escape. Obi-Wan doesn’t have a history of violence toward animals, from what he knows about the man so far; he’s certainly never shown any hostility toward Threepio in the past. At least when he murders Anakin, he’ll probably take good care of his dogs.

Leaving Artoo in the car for now, likely not wanting the dog to aggravate his broken leg, Kenobi opens the door by Anakin’s feet to let Threepio out. He can’t get at the bindings holding Anakin’s hands without a bit of maneuvering, and Kenobi ends up half on top of his young captive as he saws at the fabric of the tie with his pocket knife, still stained with dried blood from the man in the alley. He obviously hadn’t had time to wash it before they left. Anakin holds painfully still, waiting, until the bindings fall loose enough for him to get his hands free.

At which point he heaves upward, kneeing Kenobi in the stomach and knocking the air from his lungs. A shove propels the gasping man off him and down into the space between the seats, allowing Anakin some space to maneuver. He pops open the door at his head, scrambling out from beneath the blankets Obi-Wan had him wrapped in and falling from the car to the ground below. He’d barely managed to get his feet under him when Kenobi lunges from the vehicle, grabbing for him.

Without the inhabitations of a sedative coursing through his system, Anakin manages to put up a bit more of a fight than he did at the apartment—even manages to get in a good punch that will undoubtedly blossom to a black eye in a few hours. Anakin takes pride in that even as Kenobi, obviously skilled in subduing the unwilling, wrestles him into the closed passenger’s door, pinning him between the cool glass and the heat of Obi-Wan’s chest, good arm twisted behind him at an awkward angle. He can hear Threepio whining in distress at the situation, and Artoo is barking from within the car.

“Enough, Skywalker,” the older man snarls, yanking up on Anakin’s arm just enough to hurt when he refuses to stop squirming. “Town is an hour’s drive back down the mountain; the nearest neighbors are a two miles walk in an unknown direction through unfamiliar terrain and winter weather. There is no point in running. There’s nowhere you can go where I won’t find you; there’s no one you can go to that I wouldn’t kill to keep you. Do you understand?”

Anakin gasps, muscles freezing up as the panic sets in again. There is nowhere he can go, is there? Even if he were to get away from Kenobi now, he’s not prepared for a trek through the mountains in the dead of winter. He can feel the morning chill nipping at his skin, can see his breath misting in the rising sunlight.

“If you don’t want me to run, you’re going to have to kill me,” he hisses.

“Oh, Anakin,” Obi-Wan purrs, “is that what you want? I’m not going to kill you. If your death was an option, I’d just let you run. Exposure would kill you before you got halfway down the mountain.”

Anakin’s early childhood was spent in Tattooine; they’d only moved to Coruscant a few years before his mother’s death. He’d never quite adapted to cold weather—certainly not like this. He’s mentioned it to Obi-Wan once or twice in the past. That the man remembered would be a surprise, if not for the recent revelation of his horrifying obsession.

Obi-Wan steps away, but doesn’t take his hand off Anakin’s good arm. The other one is useless for anything other than dangling at Anakin’s side and throbbing in pain now that the medication Kenobi gave him has worn off, leaving him at a distinct disadvantage should he attempt a second physical altercation. Not that there’s any point. Kenobi was right: if killing him was ever an option, he would’ve saved himself the trouble and let nature take its course. Even as pissed off as he is, Anakin’s not going to be able to rile him enough to simply end this here and now.

Appropriately cowed by the bleakness of his situation, Anakin allows Obi-Wan to drag him out of the way of the passenger’s side door. The older man opens it and collects a wriggling Artoo, tucking the dog under his arm and whistling for Threepio, who had wandered off to do his business. Anakin regrets allowing the man so much time to earn the golden dog’s favor when he immediately bounds over, tongue lolling and tail wagging happily.

At least someone is happy at the prospect of so much fresh air.

He’s released long enough for Obi-Wan to unlock the front door when the party arrives, then find himself dragged into the house. Even inside, it’s cold. Obviously no one is here often enough to make it worthwhile to keep the heat on, lending credence to Obi-Wan’s claim that someone tracking them here is unlikely. Artoo is set gently on the floor, and Kenobi locks the door behind them.

“There is a bedroom upstairs—the first door on the left,” Obi-Wan huffs, letting go of Anakin again. “You can make yourself comfortable while I turn the heat on.”

“Gee, thanks. How generous.” Anakin growls, and stalks off toward the stairs he can see just past the entryway. Obi-Wan watches him to make sure he gets there before disappearing into a door just off the hall, down into the basement.

There are, in fact, four doors off the upstairs hallway. Anakin does not enter the instructed room first, and instead explores the floor while he’s still alone. Two of them were likely bedrooms at some point, one with a set of bunk beds and another with a single twin. They’re bare, now, except for the bedframes and dust, but Anakin can make out places where the paint on the walls is unevenly faded—were posters and photographs would have once hung. All the windows are sealed shut. The third door is a bathroom, as disused as the bedrooms. There’s not even a curtain to separate the shower from the rest of the room.

The fourth room, the master bedroom, is much more lived in than the others. A large bed seems to be the room’s centerpiece, nightstands on either side. There’s also a desk, a chest of drawers, a bookshelf, and two doors leading off this room—likely to a closet and master bath. There are traces of Obi-Wan everywhere: books lying on the nightstands, papers on the desk. Anakin would bet he came down for the college’s fall break earlier that year. He’s tempted to go through the desk drawers, but the sound of shoes on the stairs alerts him that his isolation has reached its end and that Obi-Wan is on his way up. He’s quick to move toward the center of the room, facing the doorway as his captor draws nearer.

Threepio enters first, bounding across the room and up into the bed without preamble mussing the sheets and sending pillows flying with his excitement. Kenobi follows after, a scowl on his face at the mess the dog is making. Artoo is back in his arms, looking no worse for wear. Anakin tenses when Obi-wan shuts the bedroom door behind him.

“My apologies for the chill,” Obi-Wan sighs, setting the second dog down on the bed before walking over to the closet. Anakin skitters away when Kenobi passes too close for his comfort. “The heat should kick on shortly. Until then, I think I have a few extra blankets in here. I’d like to avoid having to go back out to the car, for now…”

He emerges a moment later with another bundle of linens, dropping them on the floor next to the bed before, one by one, unfolding them atop the comforter. Artoo makes an offended noise and drags himself toward the headboard, out of reach of the blankets. Threepio doesn’t budge, accustomed to being smothered in blankets after how long he’s spent with Anakin.

“Do you have a preference on side?” Kenobi asks as he picks up the final blanket.

Anakin blinks. “What?”

“Side of the bed,” Obi-Wan elaborates, a fond smile curling his lips at Anakin’s confused expression. “Do you have a preference? I don’t personally, but some people—”

“I’m not sleeping with you,” Anakin yelps, abruptly putting two and two together.

Kenobi chuckles. “Well, I would imagine not. It’s still a bit early for that, I think. However, once things settle…”

“No!” Anakin squawks. “I mean, I’m not sleeping in the same bed as you! Not now, not ‘when things settle’, not _ever_.”

The smile slips from Kenobi’s face. “Anakin,” he says coldly, “we’ve both had a long night, and I’d like to get at least a few hour of rest before I have to take Artoo to his appointment.”

“You don’t need me in the bed for that. I can stay in one of the other bedrooms.”

“I _need_ you somewhere I can keep an eye on you,” Obi-Wan growls. “None of the other doors lock from the outside, and the other bedrooms have windows; I won’t have you trying to sneak out and injuring yourself while I sleep. You can either sleep in the bed with me, or I can lock you in the bathroom.”

“Fine,” Anakin snarls, stalking forward and snatching the blanket from Obi-Wan’s hands. “Guess I’m sleeping in the tub, then.”

He doesn’t wait for Kenobi to respond before he stomps into the master bath, slamming the door shut behind him. There’s a large tub in the corner, and Anakin drops the blanket into it. It won’t be long enough to stretch out in, but it’s still significantly better than sharing a bed with Kenobi.

Anakin hears the faint sound of something scraping against carpet, and when he tries the door again, it predictably doesn’t budge. Kenobi must have wedged the desk chair under the knob. He isn’t getting out until Obi-Wan lets him out. His arm throbs; he wishes he'd asked Obi-Wan for another painkiller before throwing his little fit.

With a sigh, he clambers into the tub and wraps the blanket around himself. Might as well try and get a few hours of sleep before he has to deal with Obi-Wan again.


	8. Eight

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is nearly 4k words long RIP me.

Anakin Skywalker is not a creature well-suited to captivity. He knows this in the way he knows that the earth is round and the sky is blue—absolute, infallible. He needs freedom like he needs the oxygen that fills his lungs. There is no greater punishment than this, locked in a small room with nothing but his own mind and whatever little things Obi-Wan deigned to leave him to entertain himself whilst the older man is out. There are no windows in the bathroom—just the bare expanse of aging wallpaper, a mirror, and a couple tacky, nature-themed decorations that must be holdovers from the time when Qui-Gon Jinn occupied this space.

It has been nearly twenty-four hours since his capture, Anakin suspects, and while he cannot be reported missing until a full forty-eight has passed, his colleagues have no doubt noticed his absence. Quinlan would have tried to call him last night, and he would have begun to worry when Anakin didn’t pick up. He knows Anakin’s history, knows what he came from. The rest of the precinct—and subsequently most of Coruscant—knows the bare bones of the story, but as his partner, Quinlan knows every gritty detail. As the man who’s had Anakin’s back through thick and thin, he’d deserved that courtesy. Anakin Skywalker clawed his way from darkness and fought for everything he’s gained; Quinlan knows he wouldn’t just up and leave it all behind. He can only hope that, in the end, that conviction will be enough to convince the brass when the time comes that there is something very wrong.

When Obi-Wan left to take Artoo to the vet, he was benevolent enough to leave Anakin a small collection of items just inside the door: a sandwich, a bottle of water, more bedding, and a few books. There were also two painkillers, which Anakin immediately swallowed dry. They probably won’t be enough to last him until Kenobi returns, but Obi-Wan had been wise enough to not leave him the whole bottle, suspecting that his young captive might make a rash decision in his isolation. He’d probably be right.

The sandwich is a sad-looking thing: peanut butter on slightly stale white bread, cut in half and stacked neatly on a paper plate. Obi-Wan had apologized when he left it, claiming not to have anything else stocked in kitchen at the moment, but assured that he’d run to the store while out to collect something slightly more edible for dinner. The water bottle is the same brand he kept stocked at the apartment. Anakin touches neither, despite the growling of his stomach. It’s for the better, he thinks, considering the last thing Kenobi gave him was laced with a strong, fast-acting sedative. While there’s no discernable reason for Obi-Wan to want to sedate him again, he’s already got Anakin where he wants him, it’s not a risk he’s willing to take. Anakin is not eating or drinking anything unless he sees Obi-Wan try it first. As for water, he can get it out of the sink, if he gets desperate.

He drags the bedding into the bathtub to join the blanket he took from Obi-Wan last night. He probably shouldn’t be thankful for anything Obi-Wan gives him, Anakin knows it’s what Kenobi wants, but after sleeping in a bathtub with only a single blanket for comfort, he really is happy to have them. The blankets and pillows are arranged in a strange nest, and are far more comfortable than the porcelain had been alone. Even with the now functioning heat, the temperature will still drop with the night. When the snow starts, and Anakin has no doubt it will at this elevation, every additional layer will help to keep out the chill.

The books Anakin carries into his little nest. They’re hardly complicated reading—cheap romance and crime novels that you can pick up for a buck or two at a gas station. Anakin thumbs through the first; the back of the book proclaims it to be the doomed romance between a vampire and a human princess. For all he’s discovered he doesn’t know about Obi-Wan, he does know that this is exactly the kind of drivel that Kenobi would never touch; he must have bought it especially to keep Anakin entertained.

As far as the plot goes, it’s terrible. He mourns the trees that were torn up to provide the paper this monstrosity was printed on. The main character swoons over the dark and mysterious vampire who sweeps her away to his castle. She’s so sure that he’s simply misunderstood. If only she can look beyond his faults and her kidnapping, she’ll see the sweet, kindhearted man he really is. Anakin almost laughs because sister, that is not how this works. He would know. She’s better off with the prince she was stolen away from, who searches tirelessly for her so he may slay the vampire tyrant.

In the end, he gets as far as the first sex scene—a few paragraphs of flowery prose and more metaphors for cock than Anakin even knew existed—before he takes hold of the page and tears it from the book. The sound is satisfying, and he watches the page flutter to the floor with a small smile. So he tears out the next, and the next, until the floor is covered in loose sheaves of paper and he’s holding the empty jacket in his hand. Anakin repeats the process with the rest of the books and takes pleasuring in destroying Kenobi’s gifts.

When that’s done, he’s bored again and decides to rifle through the cabinets. There’s a stack of towels, shaving supplies (sans razors), and an opened box of condoms now past their expiration date under the sink. Anakin tries not to think about that—about Obi-Wan luring some hapless, ignorant victim back to the cabin and into his bed. Especially since, until about a week ago, he probably would have happily played the role of ignorant victim. It’s wild how fast someone’s life can change. Absently, he wonders if Obi-Wan would have let him leave if he’d actually managed to take Anakin to bed the night of the press conference, or if he would have found himself in this situation a lot sooner.

The thought of bathing crosses his mind, he hadn’t let Kenobi close enough to change his bandages earlier and his arm is likely to get infected at this rate, but the idea promptly dismissed. He’d have to drag everything back out of the tub, for one, which seems like too much of a hassle. Also, Obi-Wan hadn’t left him a change of clothes. There’d be no point in getting clean only to put the same dirty clothes back on, and he certainly isn’t going to be sitting around in naught but his skin when he knows his captor is attracted to him. That’s just inviting trouble.

By the time he exhausts every possible avenue of entertainment, Anakin has no clue what time it is or how long Kenobi’s been gone. His internal clock guesses somewhere between late afternoon and early evening, but who knows if that’s actually correct. Under discolored bandages, his right arm throbs, only just dulled by painkillers.

With a sigh, Anakin crawls back into the tub and settles down to wait out the rest of Kenobi’s absence.

* * *

 

“You’ve been busy.”

Anakin peers over the lip of the tub to see Kenobi standing in the doorway, Artoo in his arms and a plastic shopping hanging from his hand, observing the mess Anakin’s made. He’s bundled up against the weather, black pea coat at odds with the faded blue jeans he wears. There’s a scarf tied around his neck that he hasn’t taken off yet, likely due to the wriggling canine that he’s carrying. Obi-Wan’s cheeks are tinged pink from the cold, auburn hair tousled from the wind, lips quirked with amusement at the wreckage of the bathroom. Anakin would think the whole ensemble quite attractive except that Kenobi’s sporting an impressive black eye from their altercation in the driveway that morning and, you know, a serial killer.

He’d just been wishing the man would return to relieve his boredom, but now that he’s here, Anakin just wants him to disappear again. Funny how that works.

Obi-Wan sets Artoo down, and Anakin gets a good look at the dog’s new cast. It’s blue, spanning from his elbow all the way down and around his paw. The dog hobbles over to the tub, tail wagging, and looks expectantly up at Anakin. He’s helpless to do anything but reach down over the side of tub and scratch the canine between the ears, as is so obviously desired.

“No blood on your clothes; guess you didn’t murder anyone while you were out,” Anakin sneers.

“Don’t be ridiculous, Anakin,” Obi-Wan scoffs, crouching to begin collecting the papers closest to the door. “I only just took my latest victim yesterday, if you’ll recall. It’ll be another week at the least, before I feel the urge again. Maybe even longer, now that you’re here to keep me busy.”

Anakin… really didn’t need to hear that. In fact, Anakin doesn’t need to hear anything Obi-Wan might have to say at the moment. Especially the man’s disappointed comment of, “You didn’t eat your lunch.”

Glancing back up at Kenobi, he finds the man holding the plate of peanut butter sandwiches, unearthed from beneath the pages of Anakin’s books. If the sandwiches were a sad sight before, they are truly pathetic now, the bread hardened and peanut butter gone crusty. Obi-Wan is also a pathetic sight, glancing between Anakin and the plate, concerned that Anakin refused his shitty offering.

“I wasn’t hungry,” Anakin mutters, leaning back into the tub and sinking down as far as he can get. Artoo whines at the loss of contact, but he can suck it up. If Obi-Wan’s going to insist on talking to him, Anakin is going to spare himself from having to look at the man while it happens.

More rustling paper sounds, which Anakin assumes is Obi-Wan digging up the water bottle as well. This theory is confirmed when a startled, “You didn’t drink anything either!” sounds from the other side of the room.

“You drugged the last water bottle you gave me.”

“I had a reason to, then. What reason would I have to drug you now?”

Anakin snorts his disdain. “How am I supposed to know what’s going on in your head?”

“Anakin, this isn’t healthy!” Kenobi snaps. “You haven’t eaten anything since yesterday, you haven’t drunk anything, you didn’t let me change your bandages earlier; are you trying to kill yourself?”

“It’s certainly better than spending my days locked up in your bathroom until you get bored and decide to do it yourself.”

Obi-Wan growls in agitation, but doesn’t argue with Anakin further. He sets something down—his shopping bag, if the plastic rustling is anything to go by. “I have brought you a change of clothes; you need to shower. I’ve supplied the bathroom in the hall with anything you might require, as you seem intent on taking up residence in this one.”

“I wouldn’t have had to if you’d just give me my own room…” Anakin interjects, but Kenobi plows on as though he hasn’t even heard.

“I will be downstairs, making dinner. I would appreciate it if you would come down after you’re clean, so you may eat something and I can look at your wound.”

“And if I don’t?”

Glancing over at Kenobi for the first time since the older man brought up the sandwiches, Anakin finds his eyes caught by Obi-Wan’s thunderous expression. He is clearly _displeased_ with this entire situation, which makes sense in that he clearly intends to keep Anakin alive despite how completely bizarre that particular desire is. “I will be wrapping your arm tonight one way or another,” Obi-Wan hisses. “It is up to you whether we do it the easy way, or the hard way. Now, shower, and I will see you downstairs shortly.”

With that, Kenobi leaves, Artoo hobbling after him.

* * *

 

Dragging himself from the warm spray of the shower is one of the hardest things Anakin has ever done, and he beat reigning champ Subulba in a drag race in his teen years. Obi-Wan’s already taken the lock off this door, but the bathroom still offers some illusion of safety and privacy. Anakin is hesitant to ruin that by crossing the threshold of Kenobi’s patience, as he doesn’t know how long ‘shortly’ means and has no doubt that the man will forcibly drag him out if he thinks his captive is taking too long. Better safe than sorry.

Anakin towels himself off and tugs on the clothes provided before running his fingers through his hair and inspecting himself in the mirror. A strange sense of disappointment falls over him as he scrutinizes his reflection; he doesn’t look the part of a captive. There’s no tattered clothing, no starvation-hollowed cheeks, no dull look in his eyes. Even the bruising from their fight in the driveway that morning is minimal. Sure he’s only been in Kenobi’s care for a day now, there is time yet for those things to develop, but a small part of him wishes they already had. It’d make this situation easier to understand.

He looks more houseguest than prisoner. Obi-Wan has supplied him with a pair of sleep pants and a simple tee shirt. The pants are long and loose, falling low on his hips and dragging on the floor; the fabric of the shirt is soft under his hand as it clings to his skin, just shy of too small. They’ve obviously been selected with care, neither too warm nor too cold, adhering to Anakin’s preferred color scheme of blacks and greys. He looks like he chose to be here—that everything is alright. In fact, the only sign that anything is amiss is the light bruising around his wrists from the hours spent restrained in the car and ugly, reddened cut on his arm that wasn’t even Obi-Wan’s fault.

It makes Anakin want to scream.

But he doesn’t, as he doesn’t dare linger any longer. Instead, he exits the bathroom and pads downstairs, wary eyes scanning for possible dangers and escape routes. He hadn’t had time to explore much of the downstairs that morning, having been sent straight up to the bedroom in the aftermath of their altercation. Meandering through the cabin, following the noises of clattering pots and the smell of something cooking, reveals a cozy sitting room and a dining room, both bedecked in more of the same tacky décor as the master bath. While the master bedroom has been redecorated to suit Kenobi’s tastes, the rest of the house is likely in the same state it’s been in since his youth.

There are large, picturesque windows in every room, and Anakin has no doubts that these are as tightly sealed as the ones upstairs. He has half a mind to dart out the front door while Kenobi is distracted, but his shoes had disappeared somewhere between falling unconscious in the apartment and waking in the car. Anakin has no desire to lose toes to frostbite in a rash escape attempt, nor to face the repercussions that would follow his eventual recapture. A barefoot escape attempt would just be stupid.

The source of the noise is finally located: Obi-Wan in the kitchen, straining something into the sink. His back is to Anakin, a perfect opportunity, except a quick glance around the kitchen reveals not a single sharp object with which he might incapacitate the man beyond the one that rests on the countertop near Kenobi’s hip. What kind of kitchen doesn’t have a decent set of knives?

 “I took the liberty of putting away anything you might be tempted to use for… untoward purposes,” Obi-Wan announces, apparently having heard Anakin enter the room. He sets the pot in his hands down into the sink and gestures to a cabinet that apparently been padlocked shut, like some extreme version of baby-proofing. “I will be keeping the key on my person at all times. Please don’t get any ideas; I selected that particular lock for its difficulty to pick.”

Anakin huffs. “I’m sure you did.”

He makes his way into the kitchen and settles on a stool by the center island, watching Kenobi as he continues bustling about. Artoo and Threepio are milling around Kenobi’s feet, waiting for something to fall on the floor for them to claim. There’s what appears to be marinara sauce boiling in a pot on the stove, and a distinct smell of garlic coming from somewhere. A pasta dish, then—something simple and easy to make, especially on a time crunch. Anakin’s stomach rumbles, traitorous. Obi-Wan glances over his shoulder as he divvies out food, a knowing look on his face that reddens Anakin’s cheeks.

“Here,” Kenobi says, setting a paper plate of spaghetti and a slice of garlic bread on the island in front of Anakin. The fork the older man gives him is plastic; Anakin raises a skeptical brow. “We’ll work out way up to real cutlery.”

It’s probably a safe bet that Obi-Wan hasn’t put anything in this, considering Anakin watched him serve everything, but his attempt to start eating is ruined by Obi-Wan setting his own plate next to Anakin’s, clearly intending to take the chair beside him at the small island.

“The sauce is just out of a jar, but I didn’t have the energy tonight to make—”

Kenobi’s barely gotten into his seat when Anakin all but launches from his own, taking his plate with him as he flees the close quarters. A disparaging sigh follows him out as he makes his way from the kitchen to the dining room with the small, square table he’d spotted earlier. With only one chair on each side of the table, there’s no way for Obi-Wan to get too close—certainly not as close as they were at the island, with their sides all but brushing.

“This is unnecessary, you know,” Obi-Wan says as he enters the room, carrying his own meal and two bottles of water, the dogs at his heels. “I’ve already told you, several times in fact, that I have no intention of hurting you.”

“You and I have very different definitions of ‘hurting’,” Anakin mutters, scowling at the other man before stuffing another forkful of pasta in his mouth. He’s hungry, after all.

Settling in the chair directly across the table, Kenobi places one of the water bottles within Anakin’s reach. He’s quick to swap it with the one Kenobi kept for himself, eyes narrowed suspiciously as he cracks the new bottle open. When there’s no visible reaction from the older man when he does so, he presumes the water is safe and sips from it, reveling at the relief from his dry throat. The rest of their meal is taken in silence, after Anakin fails to respond to any of Obi-Wan’s attempts at conversation.

The older man’s complacency is suspicious, but Anakin doesn’t think anything of it until it’s far too late. He pushes up from the table, fully intending to throw his plate away and retreat back to the master bath, except he doesn’t get nearly that far. His world turns dangerously on its axis in a familiar, sickening sensation. Kenobi doesn’t even get up from the table as his captive slumps back into his chair, balance upset, but does at least have the decency to look a bit cowed at the betrayed look Anakin turns on him.

“The fuck?” Anakin gasps, “You said—”

“My apologies, Dear One,” Obi-Wan sighs, and he does sound apologetic. More so than he did the last time, at least. “I know what I said. However, you’ve been on edge all evening, and I still need to have a look at that arm. It’ll be far less painful for the both of us if you aren’t quite so combative when I do so.”

He gets up, then, collecting their plates and the water bottles. Kenobi hasn’t touched his own—a detail that went over Anakin’s head earlier, when he was focused only on relief from his hunger and thirst. They were likely both laced—an easy way to ensure the outcome he wanted no matter what bottle Anakin chose. “If it makes you feel better, I haven’t given you enough to put you out. Just enough to take the edge off.”

“Go to hell,” Anakin slurs, vision fuzzy at the edges as he watches Kenobi meander back into the kitchen.

“All in good time, I’m sure,” the older man calls in response.

When he returns, Anakin does his best to put up a fight. It’s just as ineffective as the last time, but he still makes Kenobi as miserable as possible as the man drags him from the dining room and into the sitting room, forcing him to wrangle Anakin’s flailing limbs without tripping over the dogs that trail after them. Deposited onto the couch, he sinks into the cushions and glowers at Obi-Wan as he shuffles through the contents of a nearby cabinet. Artoo curls up at Anakin’s feet, unable to get up on the couch on his own with the hindrance of his cast, while Threepio settles between his owner and the armrest. Anakin legs are too unsteady to walk on his own, or he’d make a run for it while Kenobi’s back is turned.

“Really, I don’t understand what you’re making such a fuss about,” Kenobi says when he settles on the couch next to Anakin, a white first aid kit in his hands. “Most people would be thrilled to get away from the chaos of their day to day lives.”

“They get to go willingly; I didn’t have a choice.”

Anakin watches Kenobi inspect the cut on his arm carefully, going through the delicate process of cleaning it and bandaging it once more. He’s diligent, scrubbing away any lingering dirt with antiseptics before wrapping the cut in gauze. “We’ll have to keep an eye on this,” he mutters more to himself than Anakin. “It’s looking like it might get infected…”

Smoothing tape down over the gauze, Kenobi’s eyes flicker up to meet Anakin’s as he catches the younger man’s hand between both of his. He brings it up to his face, dragging his lips over the knuckles until Anakin jerks it clumsily from his grip with a snarl of, “Don’t touch me!”

Kenobi lets him go without a fuss, a strange smile on his face as he leans back into his own seat, collecting a remote from somewhere Anakin can’t see and flicking on the television that hangs above the room’s wood-burning fireplace.

“One day, Anakin, you won’t ask me to stop,” Obi-Wan declares, so sure, over the audio of a news report.

Anakin doesn’t know how to respond to that, so he doesn’t. Threepio places his head in Anakin’s lap, seeking affection, and he runs uncoordinated fingers through the dog’s fur in silence, promising himself that he will never allow that day to come.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Every interaction Obi-Wan and Anakin have, I ask myself "is this too creepy? or not creepy enough?"  
> I'd rather the former than the latter, TBH.  
> It's v late, so I hope you enjoyed this chapter. I am going to pass out now.


	9. Nine

Playing the cooperative captive is by far the most difficult thing Anakin has ever done, and he finds himself struggling through every interaction no matter how often he tells himself that it’ll be worth it in the end.

Anakin starts small: eating and drinking whatever Kenobi gives him without openly questioning the man’s intentions. He often doesn’t manage to stomach much, but just making an effort to choke down whatever Kenobi puts before him seems to keep his captor happy. He is a well-fed prisoner, at least, with Obi-Wan keeping them on a three-meal-a-day schedule healthily interspersed with snacks. Anakin might actually worry about gaining weight if not for the fact that he usually throws everything back up in a fit of anxiety once Kenobi’s gone to bed.

From there, he works his way up the ladder of difficulty. Proximity is the big issue, and it takes a full three days before he can force himself to stay in the same room with the man for extended periods of time. Having his bandages changed helps, in a sick way. It’s something Anakin’s learned that he can’t escape from, and forces him to spend time with Obi-Wan in his personal space. Not fighting his captor over it also comes with the added bonus of not having his food or drink drugged, which Anakin is disgusted to find himself grateful for.

When he can tolerate being in Kenobi’s space for more than a few minutes, he follows the man around the house as he goes about the day to day routine. Despite the fact that they’re living in a secluded cabin in the woods and literally have nothing expected of them, Kenobi is fastidious in keeping a routine. Breakfast, then a quick walk with the dogs, then a shower. Laundry is done every third day (Anakin assists with the folding), and they spend most of the afternoon in the sitting area, either silently reading from the extensive library Kenobi keeps in the house or watching television.

The first time Obi-Wan tries to engage in actual contact beyond the brushes of fingers involved in changing his bandages, there is very nearly bloodshed. Their usual afternoon routine of quiet time had been interrupted when Kenobi, in blatant violation of the consistent distance they’ve maintained on the couch, hooked an arm around Anakin’s waist and dragged him closer. It’d taken all of Anakin’s strength not to turn around and punch the man, fervently reminding himself that this is whole reason he’s been behaving—the whole reason he’s putting himself through what amounts to nothing less than torture. He needs Obi-Wan to let his guard down. He needs to be able to get close enough without raising suspicion.

From then on, he forces himself to spend more time in direct contact with his captor. Kenobi is delighted with Anakin’s apparent settling, taking every available opportunity to keep the younger man close. They eat at the island, knees and shoulders brushing together, and Anakin curls up into Obi-Wan’s side when they settle down on the sofa together. Obi-Wan coaxes fingers through Anakin’s untidy curls, murmuring soft things that might be sweet in another context, and Anakin’s nails bite into his palms where the older man can’t see. Whenever he showers, he scrubs his skin raw as he tries to wash away the lingering feeling of Kenobi’s touch.

It comes to a head one night before dinner, with Anakin deciding that he can’t take another day of this farce. He’s played the part for a good two weeks; he’s going to scream if he has to spend another evening under Obi-Wan’s hand and now that his arm is mostly healed, he actually has a chance at getting out of here. The (quite literal) key to freedom hangs on a chain around Kenobi’s neck: four keys. One is the house key, one is the key to the locked cabinet, and one is the key to the basement door which Obi-Was has been compelled to lock for whatever reason. Anakin doesn’t care about those; it’s the fourth key that has inspired this plan. The fourth key goes to the car out front, and is the best possible chance he has at escaping this nightmare. Though Anakin could probably hotwire the care if he was truly desperate thanks to delinquent teenage years, it’s time he doesn’t want to risk taking the time do so. His window of opportunity is going to be very small, and he doesn’t want to waste it fiddling with wires.

Kenobi is standing in front of the refrigerator when Anakin puts his plan into action, sliding off his usual chair at the island and slinking across the kitchen. He’s just behind the man when Obi-Wan whirls around, a carton of eggs in hand, the refrigerator door closing on its own without Kenobi holding it open. Anakin’s trying to keep his posture as non-threatening as possible, but Obi-Wan still eyes him suspiciously.

“Anakin,” Kenobi warns, but Anakin pays him no heed.

Another step closer drives Obi-Wan back against the fridge, and then he’s in Kenobi’s space. The older man is rigid, but makes no move to lash out just yet. He just watches—wary, yet curious. As he is usually the one to initiate any kind of contact between them, this is a break in the pattern they’ve established over the last two weeks. Anakin’s hands settle on Obi-Wan’s hips, and the older man barely has time to choke out a soft, “What are you—” before Anakin leans down enough to catch Kenobi’s lips with his own.

For a heartbeat, everything is perfectly still. Anakin nearly panics, thinks he’s pushed too far too fast, but the moment is shattered when eggs slip from Obi-Wan’s limp fingers, cracking on the tiled floor. The sound seems to spurn the older man on, because in the next moment he moans, flipping them so that Anakin is the one pinned to the stainless steel of refrigerator door. Kenobi’s hands coming up to cup Anakin’s face and adjust the angle so that he can deepen the kiss. Sliding his own hands around Obi-Wan’s back, Anakin has to resist the urge to bite when Kenobi’s tongue sweeps across his lower lip, requesting entry. Fingers tangle in his hair, and Anakin cedes to Obi-Wan’s request if only to keep the man thoroughly distracted.

There’s an empty pan on the counter right beside the fridge. It was intended for the eggs now leaking out all over the floor, but Anakin has a different destiny in mind for it. Obi-Wan doesn’t notice when one of Anakin’s hands slips off him, groping around for the handle of pan until his fingers curl around it.

It’s now or never.

With his free hand, Anakin roughly shoves Kenobi off him and is gifted with a brief glimpse of the man’s startled and vaguely confused expression before the pan makes contact with his skull with a sharp _crack_. Obi-Wan goes down with a low groan, clutching at his head as he writhes on the floor, and Anakin doesn’t waste time mourning that his blow didn’t put the man out entirely. Instead, rips the chain of keys off Kenobi’s neck and promptly flees the kitchen.

Weeks of following Obi-Wan around the house have given him the advantage of knowing the cabin’s full layout, and he’s out the front door in a matter of seconds. He stumbles down the steps and out into the driveway, bare feet stinging on sharp, cold gravel. The dogs bark and whine in confusion from the house, and Anakin does feel guilty about the prospect of leaving them here. He doesn’t have the time to round them up, however, and Kenobi is far too attached to them to do them any harm; they are his in the same way Anakin is _his_. With any luck, Kenobi will still be here when the police arrive, and Anakin will get his dogs back that way.

Unlocking the car, Anakin throws himself into the driver’s seat and jams the key into the ignition. When he turns it, however, nothing happens. The car sputters and whines, but refuses to turn over.

“What the fuck?” He yelps, twisting the key again. It produces no better results the second, nor the third time. “Oh my god, oh my god, oh my god,” Anakin mutters, forgetting the key in favor of clawing at the edges of the electrical panel beneath the steering wheel.

New plan: hotwiring the car.

The only thing louder than the pounding of his heartbeat in his ears is the enraged snarl of “Skywalker!” that comes from somewhere nearby.

Anakin has only just managed to pry the panel loose, spilling electrical wires everywhere, but peeking over the steering wheel reveals Kenobi stumbling down the porch steps.

New-new plan: run.

Leaping from the vehicle, Anakin sprints toward the edge of the forest as fast as his legs can possibly carry him. Distantly, he is aware that this is probably tearing his feet to shreds, but he can’t feel the pain for all the adrenaline coursing through his veins. Leaves crunch and branches snap behind him as Obi-Wan gives chase, but his captor is likely still disoriented from Anakin’s attack, and he had a good few seconds’ head start while Kenobi had get down the rest of the stairs and cover the distance between the house and the car. Granted, he still hates his chances of running out into the woods barefoot in the middle of the night, but he doesn’t see another option considering he just made an attempt on Obi-Wan’s life. He’d rather freeze to death in the woods than deal with whatever Kenobi intends to do with Anakin when he catches him.

Breath mists in front of his face when he’s forced to slow to a walk, each breath made painful with the cold, night air. He seems to have lost Obi-Wan, at least, as the sounds of pursuit have tapered off into silence. There is only his panting and the usual night sounds—wind rustling leafless bows and the calls of nocturnal creatures. A warm, oozing sensation is coming from the pads of his feet, and Anakin doesn’t need light to know they’re bleeding.

Goosebumps rise on his skin as he trudges onward, the night’s chill finally beginning to sink in as his heartrate slows. When he began this grand escape attempt, he was counting on the car’s heater to fend off the cold. His usual house attire, pajamas pants and a tee shirt, is not nearly thick enough for this expedition. When the wind picks up, stinging against his exposed skin, Anakin has no choice but to seek cover. As preferable as freezing to death is to dying at Kenobi’s hands, he’d much rather do neither. Fortunately, a large rock formation juts out from the earth not too far ahead; he can take shelter there, at least until the wind dies down.

Anakin is shivering violently by the time he arrives at his destination. As predicted, the rocks do provide some protection from the bitter winter’s wind. Getting off his feet is a relief, and he curls up as small as he can make himself in the shadow of the stones. If he can just last until morning, he can get moving again when the temperature warms up. There has to be civilization around here somewhere, and Anakin knows that if he can find running water of any kind, he has an even better chance of tracking down people. Making it through the night is going to be the biggest hurdle, however. If he had more energy, he’d use the skills he learned in the few weeks of the CPD’s required wilderness survival training and build a makeshift shelter. He doesn’t though, so he just curls up tighter and huddles closer to the stone, wishing for morning to come.

* * *

 

“Anakin? Anakin, is that you?”

It takes a worryingly long time to force his eyes open, but Anakin does eventually manage. His mind is in an unpleasant haze, but the sound of hurried footsteps approaching reaches his ears and he drags his gaze over to their source.

It’s, humiliatingly enough, a relief to see Kenobi jogging through the underbrush, Threepio tagging at his heels. Morning has not quite come, but the first soft lights of dawn are just beginning to make their appearance. Bundled up in heavy winter gear, Obi-Wan must have gone back to the cabin for more appropriate clothing before returning to track down Anakin. Judging from the slight stiffness to his movements, he’s probably been out all night looking for Anakin, following the trail he made through the woods. He supposes it’s fitting—Kenobi did promise to find him no matter where he ran to. Sure he’d meant it in threat, but it’s still a promise fulfilled.

Threepio reaches him first, darting ahead of Obi-Wan to clamber all over his owner, whining in concern and licking at every available inch of skin. Anakin forces numb arms into action, wrapping them around the dog and sinking his fingers into warm fur. Threepio’s heat is a blessed gift after the night he just spent trying not to freeze to death, and he greedily drinks it in until the dog wiggles from his grip upon Kenobi’s arrival.

Kneeling on the ground, Obi-Wan does not hesitate in throwing his arms around Anakin’s form, drawing the younger man to his chest and leaving his own series of kisses on any part of Anakin’s face he can reach without pulling too far away. Under normal circumstances, Anakin would protest the treatment heavily. He hasn’t been able to really feel his extremities for a while now, however, and _god_ is Kenobi warm.

“Oh stars, Anakin, you had me so worried,” Obi-Wan groans, stroking a gloved hand over Anakin’s head. “Don’t get me wrong, I am _furious_ with you, but the idea that you’d died out here because I couldn’t get to you in time…”

 Obi-Wan heaves a shaky breath, and then he’s shucking his coat off and guiding Anakin’s uncoordinated limbs into the appropriate holes. The residual heat from Kenobi’s body aids in warming his pallid skin and is slowly dragging him back toward a true state of awareness. Stiff joints protest when Obi-Wan drags him to his feet, but the man’s murmured promises of warmth and a soft bed and real rest are enough to keep Anakin upright and moving.

He has to lean heavily on Obi-Wan during the entirety of the trip, but they do eventually make it back to the cabin. Morning has well and truly come by the time they stumble through the front door, and both men are ready to climb into bed and drop off after the stress of the evening. Guided up the stairs, Anakin expects to be tucked back into his nest of blankets in the bathtub and is understandably startled when Obi-Wan leads him toward the large bed instead. Threepio happily bounds atop the blankets, joining Artoo where the smaller dog was already curled up towards the foot.

“N-no—” Anakin whines, struggling in Kenobi’s grip, which only tightens with his protests.

“Hush, Anakin,” Obi-Wan says, and even though his tone is even, Anakin can hear the undercurrent of warning. “You’re likely suffering the effects of hypothermia. I’m not leaving you alone right now.” He’s tossed rather unceremoniously onto the mattress, Kenobi following quickly after him when he tries to scramble off the other side. “Come on, Anakin,” he rumbles, dragging Anakin below the blankets dirty clothes and all, “you know you’ll feel better after a good rest.”

Anakin growls, writhing in Obi-Wan’s arms when the man tries to pull him back against his chest. “I can rest in the tub.”

There’s not too far he can wriggle away until he can go no further, and Kenobi finally manages to wrap himself around Anakin. “Mmm, maybe so, but I am so much warmer than your bathtub.”

With Obi-Wan’s arms around Anakin’s waist, legs tangled together, breath ghosting against the nape of Anakin’s neck, it sinks in that Anakin is right back where he started. All of that effort, and he let Kenobi literally walk him right back into his prison. He didn’t even put up a fight. A sob rips from Anakin’s throat as hopelessness set in; he’s well and truly trapped here, isn't he?

“Shhh, Dear One,” Obi-Wan whispers, running a hand down Anakin’s side. “What’s wrong?”

“Why didn’t the car start?” Anakin chokes, because all of a sudden he has to know.

“There’s no gas in the tank,” Kenobi confesses. “There’s a fuel canister in the basement for when I need to fill up the car and go to town. I didn’t want to take the risk of you trying what you did last night.”

The basement. That’s why he locks the fucking basement door. God, Anakin feels like such a _moron_. The tears don’t stop, but Obi-Wan murmurs soft things into his back and continues to pet him until somehow, he falls asleep.


	10. Ten

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had to get another chapter out for Halloween. I Had To.  
> Additionally, we're diving headfirst into the extremely dubious consent tag. You have been warned.

Anakin wakes slowly, true awareness delayed by the lingering warmth of the sheets and the syrup-thick afternoon light as it shines down on his face. He can’t quite remember the last time he was this relaxed, limbs splayed out across the surface of a soft mattress. There’s a pleasant weight resting on his back, as though someone were seated atop him, pinning him on his belly against the sheets. Burying his face in the pillows, Anakin can’t quite find it in him to complain. He is vaguely aware that there’s something wrong with this picture, the ghost of a whisper in the back of his mind, but the worry is batted aside in favor of basking in comfort; he has no intention of moving any time soon.

Hands slide beneath his shirt, pushing it up to his shoulders and out of the way. The sudden rush of cooler air against his skin makes him shiver, but soon the warm hands are back, tracing the flow of vertebrate down from his neck. Fingers skirt along his sides, map the patterns of his ribs, skim along scars as though attempting to memorize the placement of each and every one. A low moan slips past Anakin’s lips when thumbs dig into the lingering knots in his shoulders and receives an answering, shuddered breath from his bed partner.

In all honesty, Anakin can’t quite remember who he tumbled into bed with the previous night, but it must have been a damn good time, judging by the soreness in his muscles. Whoever they are, they’re certainly good with their hands as they continue to knead at his back, working out tension and keeping Anakin riding a high somewhere between pleasure and pain.

Arousal, potent in a way he hasn’t experienced since Padme, floods his bloodstream when hot breath ghosts along the back of his neck. Each touch, each caress, is intensified and he can feel himself hardening in his loose sleep pants. Lips brush along the line of his neck, facial hair scratching against skin in a curious sensation. All of Anakin’s previous male partners have been clean-shaven; this is a new one for him. Either way, he’s always down for lazy morning sex. A little scruff isn’t going to deter him.

“ _Ah—_ ” Anakin rasps when teeth catch hold of the juncture of his shoulder and throat, the collar of his shirt tugged out of the way to allow for easier access. The sting of the bite is soothed by a laving tongue and gentle kisses, only for the skin to be caught and worried at again.

There is definitely going to be a bruise on his neck when his partner finally pulls away, adjusting himself to bracket Anakin entirely. A bare chest brushes the skin of Anakin’s back, enticingly warm, as his partner rocks down against him. He can feel the hard line of the man’s erection though both of their pants as it grinds against his ass and struggles with the conflicting urges to rock back into the contact and to chase his own pleasure against the sheets.

His dilemma is decided for him when his partner pulls away again, grabbing hold of his hips and dragging him up to his knees for a more optimal angle. The man curls back over top of Anakin, one hand balancing himself and the other slipping down below the hem of Anakin’s sleep pants. Calloused fingers curl around his cock, brushing almost infuriatingly gently in time with the man’s thrusts. Braced on his elbows, he muffles his moans into the crook of his arm. He can feel his pleasure mounting even with the light touch, can feel himself hurtling toward completion when—

“ _Oh, Anakin_ ,” Obi-Wan gasps, breathless.

There’s nothing quite like sheer, unadulterated horror to kill the mood.

Anakin’s head cracks against Kenobi’s when he jerks upright with a rather undignified squawk, effectively dislodging the man and sending him tumbling to the floor in a tangle of blankets and limbs. Dropping back down to the sheets, Anakin stuffs his flagging erection back in to his pants and covers his face with his hands as he tries to swallow down the nausea that comes with the thought that he, in his half-conscious state, had apparently decided to just go ahead and _fuck_ Obi-Wan Kenobi. He peers through his fingers and over the edge of the bed, watching Kenobi dab at his bleeding nose with an edge of the linens. The older man looks quite disgruntled about the recent turn of events.

“What the hell is your problem?” Anakin snarls, skin crawling with the echo of Kenobi’s touch.

Obi-Wan’s eyes flicker up to him, and his expression changes to one that reads as distinctly smug. “You never did say ‘no’, Ani.” he purrs.

With a lack of anything else to hurl at him, Anakin goes with a pillow. It doesn’t have quite the effect he would like, but he supposes it gets the point across nonetheless.

* * *

 The only thing that makes having sex with Kenobi worse is that the man refuses to let him out of the offending bed for the next several days. According to Obi-Wan, extensive wandering could reopen the cuts on his feet from his poorly-conceived escape attempt, and he’d rather not have Anakin tracking bloody footprints all over his carpet, thank you very much. Anakin would like to retort that it’s further from the bed to the guest bathroom than it is to the master bathroom, where he would very much like to be, except that staying in Kenobi’s bed has come with unexpected perks.

The first and foremost of these is Kenobi keeping his hands to himself. Following their abruptly ended encounter the afternoon after Anakin’s escape, he seems content to respect Anakin’s wishes and only touches him whenever he’s helping the younger man to the bathroom. He has also avoided sleeping in the bed with Anakin, having made himself his own small nest beside the bed from the linens previously occupying the master bath. Anakin suspects this is to reduce the man’s own temptation to repeat the actions of that afternoon more than a cession to Anakin’s wishes, but he’s not about to look a gift horse in the mouth. If Obi-Wan doesn’t want another bloody nose, he can damn well keep his distance.

Additionally, Kenobi is content to leave him alone for the better part of the day, only coming when Anakin calls or to bring him little things like snacks and water. Anakin is suspicious, having expected greater backlash from his valiant effort at escaping his prison, but perhaps Obi-Wan figured the mess he made of himself combined with the humiliation of getting a hand job from his captor was punishment enough. This is not to mention the large hickey on his neck, which he is forced to look at every time he has to pee thanks to the bathroom mirror's strategic placement.

The routine changes on the fourth day, with Kenobi disappearing into his closet and pulling out an outfit too nice to linger around the house in.

“Going somewhere?” Anakin asks, picking at the eggs Obi-Wan brought him while the other man strips down to his boxers and begins tugging the clothes on.

“Artoo has an appointment to get his cast off today,” Obi-Wan replies, doing up the buttons of his shirt and tucking his shirttails into his pants, “and we’re in need of more groceries. We’ll be back later. I trust you won’t injure yourself further while I’m out?”

Anakin scowls at him, disliking the man’s tone. “Yeah, somehow, I think I’ll live.” At the moment, just standing puts a painful amount of pressure on his wounds. He isn’t going to be plotting another grand scheme when he can’t even make it across the hall without using Kenobi like a crutch.

“Good.” Obi-Wan approaches the bed, and Anakin flinches when he leans in. He realizes belatedly that the older man was reaching for Artoo and not him, but by then it’s too late and he can move no further away when Kenobi bends back down and drops a kiss to the top of his head. Like they’re some sort of domestic couple and not… whatever they are now. “I’ll see you tonight, then.” With that he makes his exit, Artoo wriggling excitedly in his arms.

Everything is fine for what Anakin estimates to be three hours after Obi-Wan leaves, at which point he hears the front door open and somebody begin meandering about the lower floor. Threepio’s ears pick up at the noise, assuring Anakin that this isn’t some figment of his socially-deprived imagination, and the dog bounds off the bed to go investigate. It's too early for Kenobi to be back, but it's not like they have visitors over. Anakin sighs, resigning himself to investigating the source of the noise. He has no idea who would be intruding on a cabin in the middle of the woods, but he’s pretty sure there will be bloodshed if Obi-Wan returns and finds them still wandering his house.

Limping down the stairs is agony and he clings to the handrail the entire time, but he does manage to get there. Whoever is in the house has apparently decided to take interest in the kitchen, because he can hear cabinets opening and closing followed by the distinct rustling of a chip bag. Of all the things to steal, this trespasser has apparently settled on potato chips. Anakin usually isn’t one to question the criminal exploits of others—he did some weird things in his teen years—but breaking and entering for a couple handfuls of junk food is definitely an unusual life choice.

Rounding the corner into the kitchen, Anakin finds himself face to face with a teenaged girl. She’s dark skinned, with dark eyes and bleached hair. An oversized red jacket sits loosely over her form, hanging well down past the waistline of her jeans. Shamelessly perched on Kenobi’s spotless counters, she’s got one hand in the bag of chips and is looking at Anakin with an expression of utter befuddlement.

Squinting suspiciously at him, she draws her hand from the bag and gestures at him with the chip between her fingers. “You are not Obi-Wan,” she declares.

Anakin shuffles awkwardly in the doorway. “I’m Anakin. I’m Obi-Wan’s—” he struggles for an appropriate word “—boyfriend.”

Shit. He’s going to regret that.

She looks him up and down, as though sizing him up. “I can see it. You’re cute,” she decides. “Obi-Wan must really like you. He hasn’t brought anybody up here in years.”

“Uh… thanks?”

“No problem.”

The girls pops the chip in her mouth, then fishes another from the bag and tosses it to Threepio. The dog hovers at her feet, tail wagging excitedly at the treats. Traitor.

“So I don’t mean to be rude,” Anakin drawls after the silence stretches longer than his fragile patience can tolerate, “but who are you?”

“Ahsoka Tano.” The girl leaps off the counter, bringing the chips with her as she approaches. “I live nearby. My dad sends me over to check on Obi-Wan sometimes. He’s kind of a hermit, y’know? Plo worries.”

Anakin is pretty positive that nobody lives _nearby_ this wretched cabin, but Obi-Wan did mention neighbors only a couple miles out, back during the first day. It’s not implausible for a teenage girl to walk that far.

“Do you mind if I watch your TV? Plo has ours turned off when we aren’t there, and hasn’t gotten around to setting it back up yet.”

“I guess not?”

“Cool.”

Ahsoka pads past him and into the sitting room, dropping onto the couch and making herself comfortable. Her knowledge of the space lends credence to her claim that she comes around pretty frequently, and Anakin assumes that this is what Obi-Wan meant when he threatened to kill anyone Anakin told of his situation. It’s be so easy, too; no teenager these days wanders around without a cell phone. A quick call to the cops and Anakin would be home free. The only problem would come after, when Kenobi undoubtedly escapes capture (because why wouldn’t he?). Anakin knows better than to question the man’s resolve on matters concerning himself. If Anakin were to convince Ahsoka to call the police, Obi-Wan would not hesitate to take revenge on the girl for stealing away his favorite plaything. He can’t give the girl a death sentence for his own selfishness.

So he drops down onto the couch beside her, relieved to get off his feet. Threepio joins them, curling up in the last open space while Ahsoka flicks through the channels for something to watch. She settles on an action movie, and Anakin is internally relieved she didn’t pick some cheesy romance flicks girls her age are typically fond of. He doesn’t think he could handle that right now, and there’s no way in hell he’s making it back up the stairs without Obi-Wan’s help.

“So, you said Obi-Wan hasn’t brought anyone up here in a while?” Anakin asks, hopefully without sounding too nosey. He’s come to realize that he doesn’t actually know very much about Obi-Wan’s personal life, despite having been the man’s neighbor for three years and his captive for three weeks.

“Yeah, not since Satine,” Ahsoka says, eyes riveted on the television. “They were together since they were like… teenagers or something? She used to come up here with him all the time.”

“What happened to her? Obi-Wan’s mentioned her before, but he never really went into specifics.”

“She died about a year after his dad. I don’t really know the whole story, I was only like five when it happened, but apparently she was this big political activist. Pissed off the wrong people, I guess, and got killed at one of her rallies.”

“That’s horrible.”

“Yeah. Plo says they were there, too, to support her. He and Obi-Wan. They used to be pretty close before everything happened. One minute she was fine and the next she was just bleeding out in his arms, and there was nothing anybody could do about it…”

Pulling his knees up to his chest, Anakin falls silent as he tries to process this new information. He knows he shouldn’t feel bad for the man who’s entrapped him and violated him and twisted his head around until he’s not entirely sure which way is up. Even so, he does feel for Obi-Wan. It’s a terrible story, especially so soon after Kenobi lost his father. Was Obi-Wan already killing then, or was Satine’s death just another domino in the chain that formed the man Anakin knows? And then there’s the third name Kenobi mentioned: Siri. So far there’s been no information on her forthcoming, but Anakin’s starting to see a pattern involving the people in Obi-Wan’s life. He doesn’t like the prospects for poor Siri.

“How long have you and Obi-Wan been together?”

“About a month, I guess,” Anakin says. At Ahsoka’s surprised look, he adds, “We’ve been friends for years, but we didn’t start seeing each other until recently.”

“Oh. Where is he, anyways?”

“My other dog, Artoo, is getting his cast off today. Obi-Wan offered to take him; they’ll be back later.”

“Is it cool if I hang here until he gets back? I’d like to see him, but I can always come back tomorrow or whatever.”

Anakin briefly considers the question. On one hand, he’s not entirely sure how Obi-Wan will react to having Ahsoka and Anakin in the same space. Even though she’s a familiar face, she’s still a potential threat to the man’s top priority of keeping Anakin. A negative reaction could very quickly lead to violence Anakin wouldn’t wish on the teen. On the other hand, the idea of socializing with anyone other than Obi-Wan is almost too tempting to resist. The dogs are great and all, but they aren’t very good conversationalists.

In the end, he decides to take the gamble. “I don’t mind.”

“Great,” Ahsoka says, flashing him a wide grin before returning her attention to the TV. Anakin settles in for the afternoon, and feels slightly more prepared to deal with Obi-Wan when he returns.

* * *

They are alerted first to Obi-Wan’s return by Artoo skittering into the sitting room, making use of his new freedom of movement to leap up on the couch and directly atop Threepio, engaging the larger dog in a mock tussle despite the limited space. Ahsoka leaps from the couch to avoid their flailing limbs, but Anakin is forced to remain in the line of fire on account of his injuries.

“Anakin?” He hears Obi-Wan call, audibly concerned. “How did you get down—”

The elder man rounds the corner before he can finish his sentence, stopping in his tracks at the sight of Ahsoka standing in the room, watching the dogs with clear delight. Anakin has stopped paying attention to them, instead watching Kenobi for signs that the teen’s presence is less than welcome. Anakin will try to interfere if he has to, but he’d rather that whole situation be avoided altogether. He's not much use in his current state, but he might be able to buy the girl enough time for a decent head start.

Kenobi is tense, eyes flickering suspiciously between Anakin and Ahsoka as though awaiting some kind of ambush. Anakin does his best to send soothing waves the man’s way, forcing his expression into something relaxed, but his calm only seems to rile the man more. His being calm is _suspicious_ , and the last time Anakin behaved suspiciously, Kenobi got knocked over the head with a frying pan. New tactic, then.

“Obi-Wan!” He greets, forcing Ahsoka’s attention away from the dogs “You’re back!”

The teen’s eyes dart up to the newcomer, her warm smile finding its new target. “Obi-Wan!” She bounds across the room and catches the man in a tight hug. It takes Kenobi a second to respond, his mind obviously firmly locked in suspicion, but he does eventually wrap his arms around the girl’s shoulders and give her a quick squeeze. “Sorry to drop in unannounced, but your boyfriend said it was cool if I stayed until you came back—”

After that, the night dissolves into the girl recounting the events of her life since the last time the pair saw each other. She has apparently befriended the cute new girl at school, Riyu, and accidentally lit Mr. Fisto’s chemistry lab on fire. Again. They eat the takeout Obi-Wan brought back in the sitting room, the older man noticing Anakin’s reluctance to move, to the sound of her enthusiastic babbling. Kenobi never really settles, but is slightly more relaxed when seated on the couch next to Anakin, a physical barrier between the younger man and Ahsoka.

Ahsoka excuses herself after dinner, needing to get home before dark, and leaves the pair alone on the couch.

“If you told her anything, I will kill her,” Obi-Wan growls, rounding on Anakin when the front door clicks closed. "My history with her will not interfere with my ability to do what needs to be done in order to keep you here."

“I didn’t tell her anything, Obi-Wan,” Anakin sighs. “She just wanted to see you, so I told her she could stay until you came back.”

“And what did you talk about all day, hm? Your riveting social life?”

“We watched a movie and some trashy cop shows. I pointed out all the inaccuracies… she thinks I would have made a great detective.”

It’s meant to be a barb, an accusation, but Obi-Wan just rises from the couch and begins collecting their trash, brushing it off as though it were nothing. “A pity that didn’t work out for you,” he sneers.

The rest of the night is passed in tense silence.


	11. Eleven

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Google probably put me on a watch list after all research I did for this chapter, which included searching the phrases, "how to break down a door", "how to open a locked door", and "how long does it take for Stockholm syndrome to set in".

The tension from Ahsoka’s visit lingers through the next few days. Anakin is glad that the girl’s return is delayed by a thick blanket of snow, because he’s not entirely certain she would be safe in the house with the way Kenobi is acting. As it is, Anakin keeps the dogs well out of the man’s way lest he lash out in his uncharacteristic frustration. There’s been nothing but good intentions toward the canines so far, but Anakin isn’t prepared to take unnecessary risks.

Obi-Wan paces the cabin like a caged predator, which Anakin thinks is as apt a descriptor as any. He would like to blame the man’s brooding entirely on the potential threat of Ahsoka and Anakin scheming behind Kenobi’s back, but he’s hardly so stupid. Anakin has studied this man’s mind, however indirectly, for the last three years. He has studied the general criminal even longer. The wild, hungry glint to Kenobi’s eyes is as familiar to him now as it was in the faces of a dozen other suspects in years past. ‘ _The Urge_ ’ Obi-Wan had called it, a bloodlust alien to the general population; a delicate cocktail of traumas and personality disorders that have crafted this man into a hunter of his own kind—an apex predator.

The Negotiator has always maintained his routine. It never mattered how bad the weather was, or how much of a risk his chosen location would be. Every year like clockwork, three people would die horrible deaths and be displayed like gruesome offerings in some prominent location, and all of it would be done before Christmas day. While he’s been unable to keep track of the exact date while trapped in this prison, Anakin’s roughly mapped the passage of weeks and has come to the conclusion that the holiday is rapidly approaching.

With only two of his three kills under his belt and his deadline only days away, the stress of the incomplete cycle is beginning to wear on Obi-Wan. He’s tense, distant, unresponsive. Anakin finds himself rambling on about nothing if only to keep the unsettling quiet at bay. He pokes and prods, trying to goad Kenobi into action and draw the man from the depths of his own mind. Sometimes it works, usually when his attention-seeking is accompanied by some kind of physical contact, but other times Obi-Wan just snaps at him, roughly shoving him away and disappearing into the basement for hours at a time. Anakin has never gone down there, Kenobi expressly forbade it when he started making frequent trips below, and he has no desire to break that particular rule. Whatever Obi-Wan is doing to vent his frustrations, Anakin is entirely certain he doesn’t want to know.

Never once does he fear for his own life. In fact, the idea that Kenobi might hurt _him_ doesn’t even cross his mind. For all of his violence, all of his aggression, he has only turned it upon Anakin when the younger man has left him no other option. Still, when Kenobi stomps up the stairs and into the bedroom one morning with an armful of water bottles and individually wrapped granola bars, Anakin feels his heart skip a beat. He’d watched that first snow melt with growing apprehension, knowing somewhere that Kenobi would try something once he was finally free to do so.

“Obi-Wan?” He asks suspiciously, but the man marches right past him, dumping his burden onto the floor of the master bathroom. After that he gathers his bedding off the floor, returning it to its original place within the bathtub. Anakin scrambles off the bed, backing toward the doorway as the man emerges from the bathroom. “Obi-Wan, what are you—?”

Kenobi holds out a hand, beckoning. “Come here.”

Anakin stumbles backwards with every step forward Obi-Wan takes. “I’m not going in there.”

“Ani…” It’s a warning. “It’s just for tonight. I’ll be back in the morning, and everything will be back to normal. You’ll see. I just need you to come here.”

“No! I’m an officer of the law, Kenobi! Like hell I’m going to just let you lock me up so you can go out and… and kill someone!”

Kenobi lunges for him when he tries to flee, catching him just outside the doorway and dragging him back into the bedroom. Anakin thrashes in his grip, lashing out to the best of his ability and making it as difficult as possible for Obi-Wan to get him where he wants him. There are several moments where he almost slips away, but Anakin is more accustomed to being the pursuer than the pursued. No amount of police-issued self-defense lessons can really prepare you for being subdued by your serial killing former neighbor slash current housemate.

“This is not a democracy, Anakin,” Kenobi snarls when he finally lets the younger man go, throwing him roughly into the bathroom.

Anakin lands hard on the tile, but still scrambles to his feet and tries to catch the door before Obi-Wan can close it. He’s too slow—it slams shut right as he makes impact, and Anakin knows Kenobi has jammed the desk chair beneath the knob when the handle stubbornly refuses to turn. God damn him.

“Obi-Wan! You don’t have to do this!” Anakin shouts through the door for lack of a better option. “Obi-Wan, please!”

“Yes I do, Anakin,” he hears the man reply. “You know I do.”

“But you don’t! You have me; I’m right here. I’m not going anywhere. You told me that after you met me, you started killing to keep me safe. Well I’m safe! Nothing can get me here. You’ve made sure of that.”

There is an ominous pause, and Obi-Wan growls, “I did. And I will continue to do so.”

“No! Obi-Wan!” Anakin pounds at the door, shouting desperately for the man to _pleasestopdon’tplease_ , but there is no response. He hears Kenobi leave the room, hears his shoes on the stairs, and his pleas fall on deaf ears.

There’s not telling exactly how long it takes for Anakin to scream himself hoarse, not in a room with no windows, but he finally collapses against the door when his throat feels like he’s been gargling glass. His knees give out and he slides to the floor, curling them to his chest and wrapping his arms around them as hot tears sting at his eyes.

What kind of man is he that he allowed this to happen? Why couldn’t he see what Kenobi was? They were neighbors for years; he spent countless nights in the man’s home, in his presence. Was he really such a terrible cop that the very man he hunted lived under his nose for so long, and he never even suspected? And now that he knows, now that he’s been sequestered away to Kenobi’s own little corner of the universe, what use is he? He has no way to contact the outside world for help. What good is he if he can’t even stop Obi-Wan from taking another victim?

For the first time since this ordeal began, Anakin curls up on himself and lets himself weep for everything he’s lost.

* * *

 

At some point, a rather terrifying thought hits him: what if Obi-Wan doesn’t come back? What if he gets killed, or injured, or arrested?

The thought of Kenobi finally being forced to leave him alone should probably be a good one. In other circumstances, Anakin is positive it would be a relief. As it is though, he’s locked in the bathroom with a day’s worth of food and water, and he knows for a fact that Obi-Wan would not willingly give up Anakin’s location if he was arrested. The man perceives Anakin to _belong_ to him, and he wouldn’t let somebody else take him.

While Anakin could refill the water bottles in the tap of the sink, food would become an issue very shortly. Sure it takes a while for a human to starve to death, but there’s also the dogs to think about. Anakin can hear them snuffling about in the bedroom. What would happen to them if Obi-Wan never returned? There’s no telling how long it will take for Ahsoka to swing by again, or if she’ll even come upstairs to notice Anakin, and the dogs could have died of dehydration or starvation long before then. There’s no telling how much food and water Kenobi left out for them.

His heart clenches at the idea of the three of them left alone to rot in this little cabin, and before he knows it he’s up on his feet, looking around for a way out of the bathroom. In a perfect world, he would just kick down the door as he’s been trained to do. The door to the bathroom opens inwards, however, and Anakin would be more likely to break his foot than he would to actually get the door open if he tried that. There is, however, another option.

With the door opening inwards, the hinges are left exposed for Anakin to tinker with should he choose. Anakin is a man of many talents and, though he never excelled in school, he has an endless supply of practical knowledge that has proved invaluable over the course of his career. He can build a computer from scraps, he can hotwire a car, and, oh yeah, Anakin Skywalker can totally take a door off its hinges. All he requires is the right materials.

There is a hideous wooden fish statue mounted to the wall; Anakin spent weeks scowling at it while waiting to fall asleep in the bathtub. He clambers to his feet and approaches the decoration, attempting to see just how it’s hanging there. With luck, there will be some kind of screw anchoring it to the drywall. If Anakin can just get at that…

The fish rips loose from its place in a vaguely satisfying mess of plaster dust and drywall, but there are, sure enough, long screws that originally anchored it to the wall. Prying one of them free, he pads over to the door and takes the questionable decoration with him. It’s not quite the same thing as a hammer and a screwdriver, but it should do the trick. His hands are bloody from the effort of his destruction, where the fish and the screw had cut into his skin.

He places the screw beneath the hinge, hitting it with the wooden fish until it drives the hinge pin far enough out for Anakin to grab hold and pull it free. Honestly, why hadn’t he thought of this sooner? Actually, Obi-Wan would have undoubtedly heard the racket and put a stop to it. That’s a good reason, he guesses. No matter.

The process is repeated with the other two hinges and, with nothing to hold the door upright, all it takes is a few good yanks on the handle to dislodge the chair and send the door toppling over. Anakin has to scramble out of the way to avoid being crushed by the falling object, but the brief moment of terror is worth the newfound freedom.

Artoo and Threepio stand just outside, watching curiously as Anakin scrambles over the mess he’s made and out into the bedroom to join them. Their tails wag in greeting when he stoops to pet the pair, smearing blood and plaster dust through their fur. Neither seems to mind as they vie for his attention. It’s still dark outside the windows, meaning that Kenobi hasn’t even been gone a full day yet. All that panic over nothing.

Sighing, he and the dogs make their way downstairs. Threepio has torn a throw pillow to pieces in the sitting room, his first act of anxiety-induced destruction since their arrival at the cabin. Apparently Anakin wasn’t the only one distressed by Obi-Wan’s absence. The front door is only latched closed, so Anakin unlocks it and grabs Kenobi’s winter coat from where he’s started keeping in on the rack by the door. Artoo and Threepio are eager to get out, darting out into the yard to stretch their legs and do their business while Anakin stands on the porch and considers his options.

Obi-Wan promised to be back in the morning. Anakin could start walking now and maybe make town before his return. He could seek help, have the police waiting upon Kenobi’s arrival. It’s a viable option, and a rather attractive one at that. Or at least, it should be. Anakin should be leaping at the chance to get away, but it is rather cold. Even through the padding of Kenobi’s coat, he can feel the bite of winter weather. His breath mists with every exhale, and it would be a terribly long walk.

He could try to escape, or… he could just wait it out. There has to be a better option than hiking all the way down the mountain. He could just take the dogs back inside and curl up on the couch with them, watching shitty infomercials until Obi-Wan returns and plot an easier escape when it’s not the middle of the night and cold. It honestly sounds a lot better than freezing his ass off, and has absolutely nothing to do with the vague sense of guilt he gets at the prospect of so utterly betraying Obi-Wan’s trust.

So he whistles for the dogs, letting them back into the cabin and following behind. He’s not breaking; it’s just until he has a better chance of success. Anakin will get out of here one day. For now, though, there is a vivisected pillow to clean up, and terrible television to be watched.

* * *

 

The sound of a car rumbling up the driveway wakes him, announcing Obi-Wan’s return. The dogs pile off him and leap from the couch, barking as they make for the front door. Anakin follows more slowly, still groggy. He didn’t sleep well with Kenobi gone, which he is fastidiously avoiding thinking too deeply about.

By the time the dogs tumble out the door, Obi-Wan is out of the car and leaning against the closed door with a cigarette between his teeth, apparently just taking in the morning light. Anakin hasn’t seen the man smoke but a handful of times since their arrival at the cabin, leading him to believe that it isn’t a regular habit. Instead, it’s likely part of the cycle.

Kenobi’s clothes are spattered with the rust of dried blood, and Anakin has to wonder if a deity of some long-forgotten religion is offering divine intervention to keep the man from getting pulled over by a traffic cop. Judging by the size and number of those stains, Anakin assumes it a safe bet that Obi-Wan hadn’t stopped at just one victim last night. He mourns for the officers of the CPD who’ll have to clean up that crime scene, but is too exhausted to really work up the energy for anger. He’ll be mad after he gets more sleep.

“Do you always smoke after you murder someone?” Anakin asks, slowly descending the front steps and approaching Kenobi. Artoo and Threepio mill about at the man’s feet, but he pays them no heed. His eyes are firmly fixed on Anakin. There’s still a bit of that wildness lingering, but it’s not nearly as strong as it was before he left. For now, the beast is sated.

“I smoke after sex, too,” Obi-Wan offers, expression unreadable. “Do I want to know how you got out of the bathroom?”

“Probably not,” Anakin confesses, belatedly realizing that he’d neglected to clean himself up the previous night and hastily shoving his hands into his pockets.

Kenobi, ever observant, catches the movement anyways. The older man flicks the stub of his cigarette away and reaches out, catching hold of Anakin’s wrists and drawing his hands back out of his pockets. He eyes them critically, taking in the dried blood and specks of plaster, and sighs. “Come on, Ani. Let’s get cleaned up, hm?”

Obi-Wan leads him by the hand back into the house, startlingly calm for a man who just found out the captive he’d left behind had broken out of his cell overnight. Perhaps punishment will come later; Kenobi is likely as exhausted as Anakin, if not even more so. At least Anakin got a few fitful hours of rest during the night. They stop briefly in front of the bedroom, which Obi-Wan peeks into and sighs again at the destruction, before Anakin is ushered into their bathroom.

Anakin should probably be disgruntled when Kenobi follows him into the room, turning on the water to the shower and adjusting the stream to a comfortable temperature. He isn’t though. Instead, he’s strangely relieved that he isn’t being left alone. Obi-Wan is back safely; Anakin hasn’t been abandoned to the Naboo wilderness.

The pair strip down, modesty put aside in the wake of exhaustion, while the room fills up with steam. It’s a tight fit with the both of them, but somehow it works. They just stand beneath the spray for the first few minutes, the water that drips off them running red as it washes away the least stubborn of the grime that covers them. What remains clinging to their skin is scrubbed away by soapy rag, Anakin unresisting as the older man cleans him up. Shampoo and conditioner are worked into his hair, Obi-Wan carefully untangling knots with his fingers as he goes. By the time they climb back out of the shower, Anakin is leaning heavily against Kenobi.

“You know,” the man murmurs as he scrubs Anakin down with a towel, his own wrapped around his waist, “if I’d known you would miss me this much, I would have left you alone a lot sooner.”

Anakin huffs at the comment. “I didn’t miss you,” he argues, completely negated by the fact that he’s practically clinging to the man like a limpet.

“Of course not.”

Once he’s wrangled Anakin into a clean pair of pants, Kenobi steers him back into the bedroom and into bed. When he’s met with no resistance, he foregoes his usual place on the floor in favor of crawling under the sheets with the younger man. Anakin growls at him halfheartedly, but doesn’t have the energy nor the will to fend him off. Whatever. Obi-Wan can sleep in the bed, as long as he keeps his hands to himself.

“M’gonna be angry at you tomorrow,” Anakin slurs.

“Whatever you say, Dear One.”


	12. Twelve

**Four Years Ago**

There is an angel on the television.

Anakin Skywalker: Coruscant Police Department’s new prodigal son. He’s a striking young man with tanned skin and deep blue eyes and messy, blond hair. Standing before an audience of reporters and his fellow officers, he wears a hideous, slightly crooked tie and a hundred-watt smile. There’s an atmosphere about him that captivates onlookers, draws them in like the boy exists in his own field of gravity, and Obi-Wan is helpless against its pull.

Obi-Wan must have watched this press conference a dozen times now, with each revisiting viewed just as intently as the one before. It seems like every time he watches it, there’s something new to discover—something that he missed before. The twitch of Skywalker’s fingers when he has to stop himself from fiddling with the hem of his sleeves, the way he seems to preen under the praise bestowed upon him by the Mayor, the flicker of a soft, pink tongue when he licks at his lips before speaking. Countless unconscious ticks that make up the man that is Anakin Skywalker.

At twenty-three years old, Skywalker is one of the Department’s youngest officers to be promoted to the rank of detective, and consequently the only thing anyone’s talking about in the media even a week after the conference. With his angelic looks and strong record, the CPD is setting the boy up to become the new face of the department. Coruscant’s darling. There is greatness in Skywalker’s future if only he plays his cards right.

Usually Obi-Wan would watch through the whole ceremony—Anakin’s acceptance speech, the Mayor’s proud babbling, the Q&A with reporters—but tonight he’s feeling like something different. Tonight he skips through to his favorite part of the press conference, when Anakin announces that the dunce Pong Krell has stepped down from the Negotiator case, and that Skywalker and his new partner will be taking up the position of lead detectives on the case. The boy has apparently been working the crime scenes as an officer since Obi-Wan’s criminal habits began, and hopes that his previous experience with the case and his keen eye for detail will enable him to make progress where others have fallen short. While having such an adept detective on their tail might have frightened lesser men, Obi-Wan feels nothing but a visceral thrill at the prospect of having Skywalker’s attention, however indirectly, trained on him.

“ _Fuck!_ ”

Something crashes in the hallway outside of Obi-Wan’s apartment, drawing him abruptly out of his revere. There’s the sound of additional fumbling, accompanied by more colorful profanity, and Kenobi growls beneath his breath. The landlord had warned him this morning that someone would be moving into the empty apartment across the hall, but couldn’t they at least have the decency to do it quietly? They’re completely ruining his mood.

He stomps to the door, throwing it open and fully intending to give his new neighbor a verbal lashing, only to have the words catch in his throat at the sight before him.

There is an angel crawling around on the floor of the hallway, hastily stuffing his scattered possessions back into a cardboard box. His hair falls down in his face, obscuring his eyes, but Obi-Wan can see the movement of plush lips as he mutters unhappily to himself.  Anakin Skywalker looks up when he feels the weight of someone’s gaze on him, a flush rising to his face as he catches sight of Kenobi standing in the doorway. Skywalker’s eyes flicker up and down, taking in Obi-Wan, and the boy’s tongue flickers out unconsciously to lick his lips. It takes Obi-Wan an unparalleled amount of self-control not to make any rash decisions there and then.

“H-Hello,” Skywalker sputters, scrambling to his feet. “I’m Anakin Skywalker. I’m moving in just across the hall.”

“I can see that,” Obi-Wan replies, giving the man’s scattered possessions a pointed look before offering his hand. “Obi-Wan Kenobi.”

“It’s nice to meet you, Obi-Wan.”

“You as well.”

Obi-Wan can feel his heart thundering against his ribs when they clasp hands, and desperately hopes Skywalker can’t feel the way his pulse is racing. Stars above, this can’t be happening. The universe has never been this kind to Obi-Wan Kenobi. Maybe this is just some sick joke, dropping the object of his obsession practically into his lap, only to inevitably have it ripped away. Or maybe this isn’t a cruelty. Perhaps this stroke of luck is a reward for trudging through his miserable life, like the cosmic bill had come due for all that’s been _taken_ from him and the universe decided to pay him back in the form of one Anakin Skywalker.

Obi-Wan decides he likes that option far better.

If Anakin notices that their handshake lasts just a heartbeat longer than is socially acceptable, he chooses not to comment. “Would you like some help collecting your things?” Obi-Wan asks when he finally lets Skywalker go.

Anakin smiles—not the blinding, press-conference smile, but a soft, shy grin—and the gentle flush to his cheeks darkens. “That would be great, thanks.”

Obi-Wan grins in return, stepping out into the hall and closing the door behind him.

* * *

 

**Present**

Trailing a step behind Quinlan, Anakin stares wide-eyed at the sights of the station around them. People—his former colleagues—mill about, rustling through stacks of papers and files. They refill coffee mugs and hold phones to their ears, but Anakin knows they aren’t really working. He can feel their gazes following him—furtive glances from the corners of their eye as they, too, stare in curiosity. This is the first time he’s been allowed out of the interrogation room since his arrival at the station, and the first opportunity his former coworkers have had to finally lay eyes on the recently liberated detective.

Anakin pays them no heed; let them stare. He doesn’t particularly care about these little peoples’ opinions. Before he might have put on a show, but if living with Obi-Wan taught him anything, it’s confidence in himself. Fake it ‘til you make it, or so the saying goes. So he pads along in Quinlan’s wake, allowing himself to be led over to the office he has previously shared with Quin and pointedly avoiding thinking about the jingling of the cuffs around his wrists. While Quin had thought stretching his legs would do him good, he still hadn’t trusted Anakin to leave the interrogation room without taking suitable precaution. It would, after all, be Quin’s head on the block if Anakin managed to get away.

Quinlan’s half of the office is, to Anakin’s trained eye, almost exactly the same as it was when Anakin went missing a year ago. Paperwork litters the desk in untidy, unordered stacks, interspersed with half-empty mugs of cold coffee and crime scene photographs. Anakin’s own desk had looked the same, when he’d occupied it. Now it’s neat and tidy, covered in Quin’s new partner’s orderly files. Secura is sitting behind the aforementioned desk and glances up as they enter the room, but otherwise doesn’t acknowledge the pair’s arrival.

Situated between the desks is a portable whiteboard like they always have in cheesy crime shows, with their pictures and papers and small evidence bags taped up to its surface. Quin had bought it as a joke when they’d moved into the office, but it had quickly turned into a genuine resource for the two haphazardly organized detectives. Rather than risk something important or relevant getting lost among the stacks of paperwork that coated their desks, they could pin it to the board and always have it there for reference.

Today, the board is covered with photos and documents from the investigation into Obi-Wan. As Quinlan closes the door behind them and meanders over to his own desk, Anakin can’t help but wonder if they’d had this up before his arrival, or if they’d organized it in attempt to shock him into talking.

The orderly rows of crime scene photos, the victim’s information just below, are hardly as surprising as the pair of detectives likely hope. Anakin had been a part of the investigation from the beginning, and had worked the first fourteen of these crime scenes himself in one capacity or another. As for the later murders, well, some of the unfortunate victims had been dragged back to the cabin before their eventual display wherever Obi-Wan had finally deigned to dump them. It wasn’t a terribly frequent occurrence, only happening when Kenobi required _really_ intricate detail work in his creative endeavors, but Anakin had still borne witness to their creation.

He can’t help but notice, however, that there are photos interspersed within the rows of Obi-Wan’s masterpieces that are most definitely not the man’s handiwork. To anyone less familiar with the man’s work than Anakin, they would have been almost impossible to pick out, but to Anakin there are glaring differences. Slightly shaky cuts, unclean lines, unusual display locations; these crimes are the work of another killer entirely, despite the uncanny resemblance. These crimes have been purposefully designed to imitate Obi-Wan’s style.

Anakin shuffles over to the board, arranging his cuffed hands in such a way that he can pull the photos and their coordination informational slips from the board, moving them to an open space on the wall beside the whiteboard. The action draws the attention of the two detectives, who watch with pointed curiosity as he reorganizes their information.

There’s half a dozen photos taped to the expanse of wall by the time he’s done, hands hovering over a photos of a crime scene that he knows belongs in neither category. A small part of him wants to leave it there, let it fall between the cracks and be written down as another of Obi-Wan’s successful conquests, but every less murder on the man’s record is one less reason for a court to make a reckless decision should Obi-Wan, stars forbid, ever be caught. Kenobi would happily go down for this crime, but…

“What are you doing, Skywalker?” Quin asks, rising from the desk and making his way to Anakin’s side, placing a hand on Anakin’s shoulder as he moves to inspect the former detective’s handiwork. His touch prompts Anakin to take a swift, startled step away, unaccustomed to contact with anyone beyond Obi-Wan and Ahsoka and the few townspeople he’d met during his infrequent trips down the mountain. He thinks he sees a flash of hurt in Quin’s eyes, but the detective is quick to smother it. “What’s going on here?”

“Obi-Wan didn’t kill these people,” Anakin informs him.

Quin raises a surprised brow. “I thought you were refusing to talk about what Kenobi did?”

“I’m not talking about what he _did_ ,” Anakin huffs. “I’m talking about what he _didn’t_.”

“Ah,” Quin hums, an amused quirk to his lips. He has obviously caught on to Anakin’s game. While he has sworn off telling them about Obi-Wan, the small part of him that is still a detective is tugging at his conscience, forcing him to give his former colleagues _something_. He’s not talking about Kenobi directly. Surely this doesn’t count is betraying the man? “Well, let’s talk about what he didn’t do. Why do you think he didn’t kill these people?”

“The details are all off. The cuts aren’t as neat, and they were made with the wrong blade. Obi-Wan would never be that sloppy.”

“A copycat killer then, you think?”

Anakin watches Quinlan thumb at the photos of the copycat’s crimes. “Definitely.”

“Are you sure they weren’t just made in a rush?” Secura calls from her desk. “You couldn’t have known every single victim he took, even if you were living with him.”

“By the time these people died, we were sleeping together. I’d like to think I’d notice if he was sneaking out at night.” Anakin snapped. Quinlan’s head whips around, wide-eyed, at the declaration, and he feels his face flush with the realization of how that sounded. “I mean—” Anakin sputters, “—we weren’t having sex or anything. We were just sharing a bed, then.”

Quin looks dubious at Anakin’s pitiful elaboration, but doesn’t push further on that particular matter. Instead he watches Anakin lean over and pluck the photograph he’d been staring at earlier from the collection of Kenobi’s kills, holding it delicately between his fingers. “So we’ve got another killer entirely to find when we’re done with this Kenobi mess?”

“No,” Anakin sighs, “he’s been found already.”

 “He’s dead?”

 “Yes.”

“We didn’t even know there was a copycat. Kenobi’s a smart guy. Why wouldn’t he just step back and let this guy take the fall when we eventually went looking?”

Anakin grimaces even at the thought. As nice as having Obi-Wan cleared of suspicion sounds, he can’t even entertain the notion of it happening by Obi-Wan allowing somebody else to take credit for his work. “Because Obi-Wan killed for a reason. They might have been weird reasons, but there was thought behind every decision he made. What this man did was…” he gropes around for the right word, “…plagiarism. If he let this guy take credit, it would have taken all the meaning out of what he did.”

“So Kenobi killed him?”

“…kind of…”

“What do you mean _kind of_?”

Worrying his lower lip, Anakin stares down at the photograph instead of meeting Quinlan’s eyes. He can’t—not like this. Not with what he has to say. “Obi-Wan took his body and displayed it, but he didn’t kill him,” Anakin confesses. The picture in his hand wrinkles with the sudden tightening of his grip. “Quin… I killed him.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hadn't really intended the Obi-Wan POV, but the "present" section didn't reach my 2k word minimum and somebody had asked for their first meeting a few chapters back, so I went with it.


	13. Thirteen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kinky shit, not quite angry sex, and the burning of virgin eyes.

**One Year Ago**

Anakin wakes as he usually wakes: with Kenobi lying beside him, his head propped up by one arm, staring as though Anakin is the most fascinating thing that the man has ever seen. And maybe he is; Anakin doesn’t know what’s going on inside that man’s head over half the time they interact. What he does know is that he really, _really_ wishes Obi-Wan would cut it out. However, when he expressed those concerns, the older man had simply resorted to trying to be sneaky about his observations, which was even worse. Now they’re right back to where they started. At least Anakin hadn’t flinched away from him this morning. There is progress being made. Horrifying progress, but progress nonetheless. He could do without starting his morning with a small heart attack, thank you.

“What?” Anakin growls, his natural distaste for mornings serving him well in sounding particularly grouchy.

Obi-Wan is unperturbed, his expression morphing from one of awe to what could possibly be classified as smitten, if hunters of man are even capable of being smitten. “You’re so beautiful…” he murmurs, reaching out to brush Anakin’s unruly hair away from his face.

He does flinch then, which is perhaps one of the worst decisions he’s ever made in his life—right after telling Ahsoka that he’s Obi-Wan’s boyfriend, that is. Both of those decisions fall so far below ever befriending Obi-Wan Kenobi in the first place, however, that it’s almost not even worth mentioning it.

Kenobi’s fingers tangle in his hair, tugging his head to one side and exposing the line of Anakin’s throat. A whine slips through his lips, involuntary, when Obi-Wan blows hot breath against the bruises fading from his skin. For a moment, he considers struggling—considers trying to get away this time. The idea is quickly forgotten, however, as Kenobi is quick to intervene. He must have felt Anakin tense, anticipatory.

“Now now,” the man chides, pulling away to wrap his free hand around Anakin’s throat and squeezing just hard enough to make breathing difficult. Anakin knows Kenobi won’t kill him, but it doesn’t stop the spike of primal fear as his lungs struggle to pull breath through his restricted airway. “It’s much easier for the both of us if you don’t fight it. You know I’m just as happy to do it like this.”

Oh, Anakin knows. Anakin remembers what was perhaps one of the most humiliating weeks of his life short of that time he almost let Obi-Wan get him off. Back when the man first found out about Anakin’s slip of the tongue with Ahsoka, he claimed the matter of marking Anakin up was paramount to keeping their cover as a couple intact. Still furious with the man for going out to complete his cycle and leaving him locked in the bathroom, Anakin had vehemently opposed the idea.

The resulting brawl had ended the way every other confrontation with Kenobi has, with Anakin pinned to the nearest flat surface and the situation completely out of his control. For all he surpasses Obi-Wan in raw power, the other man has in strategy and experience. The fact that he keeps putting Anakin on his ass shouldn’t be as surprising as it is. Hands had wrapped around his throat, pressing down, leaving an imprint he would carry for days.

So this time, Anakin doesn’t struggle after the warning. He forces himself to be still, as limp as he possibly can despite the way his fingers dig into the sheets to stop himself from lashing out. Kenobi mouths at the existing bruises, tracing their pattern along Anakin’s throat, and bites down on unblemished skin, leaving neat imprints of his teeth in his wake.

“Why couldn’t we just be a normal pretend couple?” Anakin hisses at the instigation of a particularly sharp nip. “Without all this shit?”

“Because I like knowing you’re mine,” Obi-Wan replies, matter-of-fact. “And now that Ahsoka’s picked up on the pattern, stopping would just raise suspicions. You wouldn’t want her to start poking around into us, would you, Anakin?”

Anakin snarls. “I’m not _yours_ , and she’s going back to Coruscant in a few days. After that, there won’t be any point to keeping this up.”

“I suppose I’ll have to make the most of it while I can then, hm?” Kenobi hums, nosing along the underside of Anakin’s jaw. They haven’t kissed since the night Anakin tried to escape, beyond chaste pecks to cheeks in Ahsoka’s presence, but Obi-Wan has been taking liberal advantage of the required intimacy of their roles. “You know, this wouldn’t be so bad if you’d just let yourself enjoy it. I know at least a part of you is.”

Kenobi glances suggestively down the length of Anakin’s body where he is, humiliatingly enough, achingly hard in his pajama pants. If this were any other situation, Anakin _would_ be enjoying this; he’s always enjoyed both marking and being marked by his partners. This, however, is not any other situation, and can hardly be blamed for the fact that his uncooperative, traitorous dick seems to have suddenly remembered that Obi-Wan is exactly what the phrase ‘sex on legs’ was coined to describe.

“F-fuck you,” Anakin sputters, feeling his cheeks burning under the intensity of Kenobi’s stare.

“If only,” Obi-Wan mutters, finally deigning to pull away and give Anakin some much-needed space. “Ahsoka said she’d be by for breakfast. How about I go get started on that while you shower?”

“How generous of you,” the younger man drawls, grumbling unhappily when Kenobi leans over him to drop a kiss to his forehead before leaping out of bed. Anakin is so sick of this domestic bullshit.

It’s just a few more days, he tells himself as he climbs under the spray of the shower. Just a few more days and Kenobi will have to leave him the hell alone; he can practically _taste_ the freedom. No more bruises on his throat to sell their act, no more awkward kisses when Ahsoka’s looking, no more cuddling on the couch while they watch TV at night…

The sharp pang that accompanies that thought is ruthlessly smothered in a fresh wave of anger. It’s stupid to think even a small part of him is going to _miss_ the contact. Rationally, he knows his strange desire for Obi-Wan’s proximity is a psychological reaction to dealing almost exclusively with the man. The CPD doesn’t slack in their training, which had included a few lectures on capture bonding. Humans are social creatures, Anakin more so than most, and his dramatically restricted social circle has left him clinging to any source of attention he can get. While the addition of Ahsoka in his life has kept him from going off the rails completely, he hasn’t made another escape attempt since he nearly froze to death in the woods. That small part of him that finds himself enjoying Obi-Wan’s company thinks that, maybe, he doesn’t want to leave.

It has been nearly two months since he came into Kenobi’s care and, as far as Anakin is aware, there seems to be very little concern about his absence going around. For all his faith in his fellow detectives, his sudden disappearance hadn’t warranted more than a brief sentence on a scrolling banner at the bottom of the television screen. There would have been no signs of foul play in his apartment as Obi-Wan had a key to let himself in and out, and the addition of the missing Threepio would have made it seem like Anakin had simply collected his dog and left. Work-related stress, they would claim, triggered by the murder of his mother’s killer. He’d been seeing the department therapist, they’d say, so an episode like this is not completely unexpected. Some people just aren’t made to handle the stress.

For all Anakin hates to admit it, this… thing… he has with Kenobi is probably the simplest relationship he’s ever had. There are known variables, set boundaries. Now that they’ve settled in this strange little life, there are very few surprises. He knows what Obi-Wan wants from him, and he, for the most part, gets to decide what he’s willing to give. Though Kenobi pokes and prods at the lines Anakin draws in the sand and takes liberal advantage of the ones that have yet to be put in pace, he never completely steps over those boundaries that Anakin’s already set down.

In all reality, Obi-Wan could take whatever he wanted. There is nowhere for Anakin to run and, if the fact that he literally just sat there and let the man mark his neck up this morning is any indication, he doesn’t really have that much fight left in him. Obi-Wan _wants_ him; Anakin can see it in his eyes when they wake up in the morning or when they’re talking over dinner or when they’re curled on the couch with the dogs at their feet. What he wants more than Anakin _now_ , however, is an Anakin that’s come to him willingly.

And if the man’s obsessive interest in him over the last few years proves anything, it is that Obi-Wan Kenobi is an endlessly patient man.

By the time Anakin finally climbs out of the shower, his ill-timed erection has gone down and he’s free to wander about the house without the horrifying possibility of Ahsoka catching him with a hard-on. It would have been better if he’d just gotten himself off, he can feel the pressure of sexual frustration boiling up under his skin, but he point-blank refuses to do it at Obi-Wan’s instigation. He will die of blue balls before he gives his captor the satisfaction of knowing he’d riled Anakin that much.

The television is on in the sitting room and playing the morning news at a low volume, the dogs lazing on the sofa, the smell of pancakes (both Anakin and Ahsoka’s favorite) hanging heavily in the air. As the girl herself doesn’t seem to have arrived yet, Anakin intends to take full advantage of this lucky break by scarfing down as much food as he can manage before the teen arrives and he has to fight her for every bite he takes. At least, that is his intention until he catches sight of the headline emblazoned across the television screen.

_Negotiator Strikes Again!?_

Anakin freezes mid-step, watching the reporter as she gives the details of a grizzly new crime scene discovered on the front step of City Hall by the CPD that morning. Despite the fact that he’s listening, his mind is absorbing very little of what is being said. All he can hear is a faint buzzing in his ears as he struggles to put together the information he’s being given. He reaches out for the remote and pauses the feed on a shot of the crime scene.

This… isn’t right. Obi-Wan never kills outside of his cycle, right? Surely not. Not when Anakin is here, in his house, in his bed. He has no reason to. And yet Anakin recognizes these traits—this specific signature. The public location, the symbolism of the corpse’s posing, the victim himself. Another man who could have been Anakin; another brother lost to bloodlust.

The anger he’s been swallowing swells up all at once, and before he can consider otherwise he’s stomping into the kitchen to confront Kenobi. “What the hell did you do?” He snarls as he rounds the corner, pinning a startled Obi-Wan with a sharp gaze.

“I’m sorry?” The man asks, glancing rapidly between Anakin and the pancake he’s trying not to burn.

“Last night, Obi-Wan! What did you do? Did you think I wouldn’t find out?”

The follow up questions do not seem to clarify anything for the older man, who plates his latest pancake and sets it aside, turning to fully face Anakin. “Anakin, I have no idea what you’re talking about. What’s going on?”

Anakin storms across the room, grabbing Kenobi by the elbow and dragging him from the kitchen. The man’s protests about ‘ _the stove is still on, you’re going to burn the house down’_ are completely ignored. “This!” Anakin snarls as he snatches up the remote and mashes the play button, allowing the news feed to continue. “This is what’s going on! What the hell were you thinking? When did you even have time to—?”

Cutting himself off, Anakin watches as Obi-Wan goes still, stiff where Anakin still has a hand wrapped around his bicep. Over the course of the last few months, Anakin has seen Obi-Wan in varying intensities of anger, from the mild annoyance of burning something on the stove to frustration of Threepio getting set off by the smallest things to the blistering rage he’d been in after Anakin cracked him over the head with a frying pan and tried to escape. This is beyond any of those things, and every instinct in Anakin’s body is screaming at him to take cover.

“What is this?” Kenobi growls, the tone of his voice sending shivers down Anakin’s spine.

“You mean this wasn’t… you?” Anakin asks tentatively, and immediately realizes he’s put his foot in his mouth when Obi-Wan rounds on him.

“What do _you_ mean ‘this wasn’t me’?” Obi-Wan snaps, wrenching his arm from Anakin’s grip. Despite the fact that Kenobi is actually an inch or two shorter than Anakin, he seems to loom over the younger man in his anger. “I haven’t been out of your sight in days! When would I have had time to get away, let alone be away long enough to get all the way to Coruscant, _kill a man_ , and get back before you noticed I was gone!?”

Anakin backtracks, cowering away, “I-I don’t know,” he sputters, “I just thought—”

“Just thought _what_!?” Kenobi roars. “I can’t believe you!”

“You can’t believe _me_!? You’ve literally killed over a dozen people, Obi-Wan! What the hell was I supposed to think?”

“You were supposed to have more faith in me than that! I have a pattern—a routine! I would never just start up for no reason!” Caught up in his rant, Obi-Wan seems to completely miss when the dogs leap off the couch and run toward the front door. He doesn’t hear the sharp rap of knuckles against wood, or the sound of the door opening, but Anakin does. “I though you underst— _mmmph_!”

Grabbing Kenobi by the front of his shirt, Anakin drags him up until he can cover Obi-Wan’s lips with his own, effectively shutting the man up before Ahsoka can hear them arguing or, stars forbid, what they’re arguing about.

His bold move earns him exactly the reaction he wants: Obi-Wan completely side-tracked. Their argument is quickly forgotten in the wake of the kiss, which heats up far faster than Anakin expected it to. Kenobi kisses him with an intensity that makes him weak in the knees, even if this particular kiss is a bit sloppier than their previous encounters; even if he’s told himself time and time again that he isn’t going to let Obi-Wan get to him like this. If not for the man’s hands supporting him, clinging to Anakin’s waist like twin vices, he might not be standing right now.

His bold move earns him exactly the reaction he wants, but it comes with the unintended side effect of dragging all of Anakin’s building sexual tension up to the surface and oh, yeah, he definitely should have just sucked it up and gotten off in the shower because it would have been significantly less humiliating than this: than the breathy moan that slips past his lips when Kenobi’s hands slide to his ass, squeezing the flesh appreciatively before using his grip to drag Anakin’s body closer and grind their hips together; than the way Obi-Wan pants into his ear when he finally pulls away to draw breath, still rocking his hips into Anakin’s own; than the awkward clearing of a throat that sounds from the doorway, shattering the moment and freezing the two men in their place.

They still haven’t pulled away from each other (Anakin is trying to hide the return of his erection) when they turn their heads to look at their visitor, wearing matching abashed expressions. Ahsoka stands in the doorway, her cheeks flushed dark with her embarrassment. She manages to squeak out a single word—a soft, mortified, “Gross.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Now that's how you win an argument.  
> Somebody get Ahsoka a bleach bottle, the poor dear.


	14. Fourteen

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know it's been a while sorry ya'll. Life was busy and this chapter was being particularly uncooperative.

Breakfast is by far the most awkward affair that Anakin has ever attended.

Ahsoka is silent, shoveling down her meal with a singlemindedness that surpasses even her usual enthusiasm for food. It is only rarely that her eyes leave her plate, flickering to where Anakin and Obi-Wan are engaged in their own meals. These glances never last long, her cheeks darkening with residual embarrassment whenever she catches sight of them. The events she walked in on hang over them, and it is obviously going to take some time for her to get over what she saw in the sitting room. Anakin can’t blame her, considering it’s going to take some time for him himself to get over the fact that he had decided the most prudent course of action to settle Obi-Wan Kenobi was apparently to _dry-hump him in their living room_.

Obi-Wan is also silent, though for a completely different reason than embarrassment, as Anakin has never known the man to be embarrassed about anything. Without the distraction of sexual tension to keep him grounded in the present, his mind has drifted back to the topic that had prompted their make-out session in the first place. He is obviously frustrated with the idea of a copycat, though Anakin has yet to narrow down whether it’s that someone is copying him in general, or that they seem intent on taking credit for Obi-Wan’s work. The older man glowers at his meal, repeatedly stabbing it with his fork and not really eating—just tearing his defenseless pancakes into pieces on his plate. Anakin sighs, an early childhood spent in poverty making him cringe at the waste, and finds himself pulling Obi-Wan’s plate across the table when he finishes his own, shoveling the pancake shreds into his mouth even though he’s already quite full. Kenobi’s scowl turns on him, though it’s lost some of its heat. He isn’t really mad at Anakin—just the situation in general.

Anakin himself is miserable. The meal settles heavy in his stomach, making him vaguely nauseous when he and Ahsoka retreat back to the sitting room. Obi-Wan doesn’t join them, vanishing up the stairs, and Anakin thinks he hears the whine of the pipes indicating that Kenobi has gotten in the shower. While Anakin would usually be a little miffed with the man for skipping out on their routine morning television and gossip session, not that Anakin ever has much of his own gossip to share, he finds himself grateful for the space. After the disastrous start to their morning that just seemed intent on steamrolling into something more and more uncomfortable, he considers it best not to tempt fate. Perhaps Obi-Wan had thought so as well.

A flush rises to Anakin’s cheeks when Ahsoka seems to skirt the spot he and Obi-Wan were standing in earlier on her way to the couch, as though just walking over it will have some devastating side effects. Anakin tries not to think very hard about why he, too, avoids stepping there when he makes to join her.

The dogs are quick to join them when they settle on the couch, Artoo between the two of them and Threepio practically sitting in Anakin’s lap. Both dogs are, Anakin has to begrudgingly admit, doing very well in the wake of their and their owner’s surprise relocation. The city is full of triggers that send Threepio into fits of anxiety, but the general peace of the wilderness has aided in reliving him of some of that stress. The only real episodes he’s had so far were the time Obi-Wan locked Anakin in the bathroom and went back to Coruscant, and one eventful evening when they’d gotten into a particularly heated shouting match. Anakin can’t even remember what they were yelling about, now, but at the time he’d felt particularly vindicated in taking his frustrations over his continued captivity out on Obi-Wan. Like Threepio, Artoo has benefited nicely from his time away from Coruscant. With proper care and the attention of two doting owners, the little dog has blossomed into an energetic and spunky pup. There are few signs of his traumatic origins, with most of his wounds having healed with minimal scarring. The only real indication that he might have been in less than optimal care at some point is the scar on his foreleg where the bone of his broken leg had punctured skin. Ahsoka likes to joke that he and Anakin are twins, what with the scars on their arms, and what are the chances of that? Anakin has never had the heart to explain to her how they earned the scars in the first place.

Neither men had bothered to change the channel earlier, so the television is still playing the news on a low volume. Presumably, the announcer had switched topics during their time at the table, and has now found her way back to the subject of the Negotiator. Or maybe she hadn’t changed subjects at all. It doesn’t particularly matter, Anakin reminds himself. What matters is that she’s still discussing the numerous murders Obi-Wan has committed over the last five years, and Ahsoka is sitting on the couch only a few feet away from him, her eyes wide and round with interest. His fingers are itching to change the channel to something less dangerous, but the teenager is quick to snatch the remote away when he reaches for it.

“I’m watching this,” she grouses. “Plo never lets me watch the crime stuff. He thinks it’s a bad influence or whatever.”

“If your father doesn’t let you watch it over there, we shouldn’t be letting you watch it here,” Anakin argues.

Ahsoka, in a truly impressive display of negotiation tact and debate skills, sticks her tongue out at Anakin and stuffs the remote down the neck of her shirt. It bulges against the fabric obviously, but it certainly gets the job done. Anakin is most definitely not going to be reaching for it anytime soon.

On the screen, the news broadcaster has left the subject of the current supposed Negotiator murder and is instead describing the details of the one prior—the one Obi-Wan committed when he locked Anakin in the bathroom and left to finish his cycle.

Anakin has a lot of mixed feelings about this particular murder. When the news had first aired, he’d been furious with Obi-Wan. That was, after all, the right thing to feel when you’re an officer of the law and the man you’ve been living with for weeks goes out and commits a double homicide. Right now though, as he watches the broadcast, he can’t quite muster up the same moral outrage he’d had when the news originally broke. Not with Artoo leaning heavily into Ahsoka’s side, tongue lolling out and eyes nearly closed in contentment as she idly scratches just behind his ears.

The faces on the television—or rather, what’s left of them—are familiar. They belonged, in life, to the two men who had assaulted Anakin and Artoo in the alley out back of the apartment building. Now they look like little more than ground meat, tastefully censored as to allow airing but still get the point across. According to the news broadcaster, the bodies of criminals Maul and Savage were found in the early hours of the morning after an anonymous tip was called into the Coruscant Police Department about an illegal dogfighting ring in a building just down the street from the apartments. The police had arrived on the scene to discover the bodies of the men, apparent organizers of the fights, in the ring and a dozen bloody canines tucked neatly back into their cages, lest they injure one another. Kenobi’s signature message had been a simple greeting card left in the crude bleachers, depicting a smiling dog in a cast with the words _Get Well Soon_ emblazoned on the front in large letters. Anakin doesn’t think Quinlan found it as funny as Obi-Wan thought it was.

According to the coroner, the two men had been incapacitated, but still conscious, when they were dragged into their own fighting ring. Upon their release from the kennels, hungry dogs had done what hungry dogs do. The coroner considered it very lucky that they had the two men’s DNA on file from previous felonies, as there was very little left to identify them with by the time the dogs were finished. In Anakin’s opinion, they got precisely what they deserved, which is where the mixed feelings come in. Is it terrible that two men are dead just to satisfy some grotesque craving that Anakin’s room-mate occasionally suffers from? Absolutely. Does he feel particularly bad that it’s these two men who fell to Obi-Wan’s hand rather than some innocent bystander? Absolutely not.

Sometimes, he supposes, you just have to take the silver lining.

The broadcaster hands the stage over to a meteorologist for the weather, and the fact that Anakin Skywalker, star police detective, has been missing for literal months is once again passed over. While Anakin wants to heave a sigh of relief at the matter, there will be no further unpleasant discoveries for Ahsoka today, a sense of betrayal still lingers. He has dedicated years of his life to the force. The department could have at least taken the time to look into his sudden disappearance, rather than just writing it off as some psychotic break. He thought he was worth at least that much.

Was he really so unimportant to them? So easily cast aside? So replaceable that they would rather write him off as a lost cause than expend any real effort in a search for him? It’s a disturbing thought. Anakin had thought these people his friends—thought them loyal to him. And yet they’ve done nothing. They’ve done nothing, and Ahsoka looks at him like he is something inspirational. Obi-Wan looks at him like he is the man’s whole galaxy. They, of all people, would miss him if he were to suddenly vanish from this place.

In a desperate attempt to drive those thoughts from his mind, Anakin upends Threepio from his lap and lunges for Ahsoka, who squeals when he tries to tickle her. She leaps from the couch, attempting to flee the room, clutching the remote where it protrudes from the front of her shirt, but she doesn’t get far.

“Anakin! No!” Ahsoka shrieks when he catches her, squeezing at her sides as she ties to wriggle free. Her attempts are unsuccessful, and Anakin finally manages to catch her, flipping her upside down in attempt to shake the remote loose. Though he’d lost a bit of weight in the first few weeks, anxiety making it difficult to keep very much down, Anakin’s put it back on now, and Ahsoka isn’t particularly heavy even for a girl her age. “Skyguy!”

“Should’ve just given me the remote, Snips,” he chides as the device falls from her shirt and onto the floor.

The dogs pile onto Ahsoka when Anakin sets her down, licking at her face and neck and sending her into further hysteric laughter. Anakin chuckles at the scene, collecting his prize and flicking through the channels for something else to watch while the teenage attempts to wrestle herself out from under the dogs.

The stairs squeak, announcing Obi-Wan’s return, and a sharp whistle from the older man sends the two hounds racing to the pile of blankets in the corner that has been designated “their spot”. Taking the man in, Anakin realizes that Obi-Wan is dressed far too nicely for a lazy day at the house. He’s got his wallet in one hand and the car keys in the other. Anakin’s eyes narrow in suspicion, and he knows that Obi-Wan knows because the man is fastidiously refusing to meet his gaze. Apparently, he can feel shame. A pity he can’t apply it to anything a normal human being might feel shame for, like… say… murdering sixteen people in cold blood or kidnapping and holding your neighbor in a cabin in the woods for months on end.

“Would you like a ride home, Ahsoka?” Kenobi asks, fetching his overcoat and tugging it on. “It’s a bit nippy, and I’m going that way anyways.”

“And just where are you going?” Anakin interjects before the teen has a chance to answer him.

“I need to run to Coruscant for something,” Obi-Wan replies, though Anakin can hear the hesitation in his voice. “And we need groceries.”

A tense silence falls over the three of them, and Ahsoka clears her throat awkwardly. “I would love a ride home, Obi-Wan,” she says. “Why don’t I go start the car for you?”

“That sounds like a great idea, Ahsoka,” Anakin drawls, and Kenobi has the audacity to look betrayed that she’s leaving him alone with Anakin’s ire. “I need to have a few words with Obi-Wan before he goes, anyways.”

She nods and snatches the keys from Kenobi’s hand before pulling on her coat and fleeing out the door. Obi-Wan had stopped taking the gas out of the car after his first return to Coruscant, when Anakin had unintentionally proved that he wasn’t going anywhere, so they don’t have to worry about the car not starting and the girl coming back in.

“Why do you need to go to Coruscant all of a sudden?” Anakin asks, allowing his suspicion to bleed into his tone. “It’s nothing to do with the copycat, I hope?”

Kenobi scoffs. “Of course not, Anakin. That would be stupid. I just need to get some paperwork sorted for the University, is all. I’m going to be teaching online classes instead of going in this upcoming semester, and I have to submit a syllabus and finalize my list of attendees and—”

“Don’t lie to me, Obi-Wan!” Anakin snarls, interrupting. “I know this is about the damn case! You’ve been thinking about it all morning!”

“It’s not a lie! I really do need to fill out that paperwork. I’ve been putting it off for some weeks now, and my dean called while I was getting ready demanding I come in and do it.”

“But?”

Obi-Wan winces. “But, yes, it is partially about the case.”

“I knew it! Damnit Obi-Wan!”

“I can’t just let whoever this is run amok, Anakin!” The older man snaps. “This is my work! My _creation_! This person is killing innocent people and for what? To rub my name into the dirt?

“You are an excellent detective, Ani, better than anyone on that force,” Obi-Wan continues. “If I can just get a copy of the file, I would bet you could find this guy in no time at all. _Before_ he kills more innocent people in my name!”

“I can’t believe we’re having this argument,” Anakin moans, dropping his head into his hands and scrubbing at his face. “How do you even plan to get those files? Walk into the police station and ask nicely, hoping they won’t realize you’re the former neighbor of their missing detective?”

“If I didn’t know better, I’d think you underestimate me.”

Glancing up, Anakin meets Obi-Wan’s eyes for the first time in this conversation. The older man is staring him down, almost challenging, intently waiting for Anakin’s response. He sighs, knowing he won’t win this. “Just… be careful, ok?”

Kenobi grins, stepping closer to steal a quick kiss before ducking out of the way of Anakin’s retaliatory swat. “I always am, dearest one.”

With that, he takes off out the door and Anakin is left alone once again.

* * *

The storm rolls in during the evening. It’s just a thunderstorm, a blessed relief from the blankets of snow that have been dumped upon them sporadically through the passing weeks. Or it least it would be if Anakin Skywalker were anyone else. As it stands, Anakin Skywalker fears nothing. Not death, nor destruction. He has faced down some of Coruscant’s most depraved criminals, stared his own demise in the face, and survived despite insurmountable odds. His current situation is testament to this, surviving months in the same space as Coruscant’s most prolific serial killer with nary a scratch to show for it. Anakin Skywalker fears nothing.

He tells himself this as he cowers in the back of Kenobi’s closet with Threepio, arms wrapped tight around the golden dog. There are no windows in the walk-in closet so he is spared the flash of lightning, but he can still hear the pounding of rain and the deafening roar of thunder. Threepio whines in distress, no more pleased with this situation than his owner, and Anakin curls his fingers into the dog’s fur, burying his face in Threepio’s neck and inhaling dog smell. He has no idea how long they’ve been there.

Tatooine, where Anakin lived as a small child, was generally a very dry place. They’d moved to Coruscant only a few years before his mother’s death, and the first thunderstorm they’d had sent him cowering. He’d never been able to overcome the fear, hiding beneath the bed as a kid and in the bathtub as a teenager. By the time he’d moved out on his own, the bathtub had been deemed too small to adequately curl up in, and he’d taken up residence in the closets of his apartments. After he’d gotten Threepio, the dog had joined him in waiting out the storms among the hanging clothes, equally terrified by the weather.

A particularly loud clap of thunder makes both Anakin and Threepio flinch. Artoo, who sits in front of them as though to protect them from the incorporeal danger, offers them both a consolatory lick. Anakin had been right that night in the alley—Artoo is quite loyal to his loved ones.

“Anakin?” Obi-Wan calls out from somewhere downstairs, and Anakin’s heart leaps to his throat at the thought of the man’s return. Half of him is relieved to no longer be alone in the house, the rest of him humiliated at the thought of Kenobi seeing him like this. “Anakin?” The sound of footsteps on the stairs reaches him over the noise of the rain, along with another, slightly more distressed, “Anakin?”

He wants to call out to Kenobi. Honestly he does. There is no sense in the both of them being upset just because of this stupid weather, but his voice catches in his throat and Obi-Wan’s tone is definitely panicked when he calls, “Anakin, where are you?” from somewhere in the bedroom.

In an act of selfless heroics, Artoo starts barking as though to alert the man of their presence in the closet. Only a heartbeat later does Kenobi throw the closet door open, soaked through from the rain and looking distinctly frazzled. “There you are,” he breathes, tripping over himself in his haste to enter the closet and bundle Anakin up in his arms. “I feared you might have run off again.”

Anakin doesn’t respond beyond prying his fingers loose of Threepio’s fur and clinging to Obi-Wan instead, heedless of the man’s drenched clothes. Hot tears sting at his eyes, furious with himself for the feeling of safety that rushes over him with Kenobi’s nearness. Obi-Wan Kenobi isn’t safe, but that doesn’t stop his racing heart from settling just slightly as the man runs soothing hands down his back.

“I never knew you didn’t like storms,” Obi-Wan murmurs. “Even with everything I’ve learned, it seems like there’s always more about you to discover. You should have told me.”

Of course Anakin wasn’t going to tell him. He hasn’t told anyone, save for Quinlan, and that had been an accident. The man had swung by Anakin’s apartment one night to drop off a file and found him sitting in the closet with Threepio. Though Quinlan had been the paragon of composed at the time, Anakin knew the man found the situation hilarious. It had kept him from admitting his fears to anyone—let alone Kenobi.

A whine slips from Anakin’s lips when Obi-Wan tries to pull away, and the man hushes him. “I’ll be right back, Ani. I just need to change out of this so I stop dripping on the carpet, ok?”

It’s not ok in the least, but Anakin nods mutely. He trusts Obi-Wan when he says he’ll return and reluctantly releases his grip. It earns him soft praise and Kenobi hurries from the closet, grabbing a change of clothes as he goes. When he does come back, clad in pajama pants and a tee shirt matching Anakin’s own, his hair is only slightly damp and he’s got a bundle of linens from the bed in his arms.

“It’s alright to be afraid,” he tells Anakin while he arranges the blankets and pillows into a makeshift nest in the back of the closet. “Everyone is afraid of something. What matters is whether or not you let that fear control you.” Obi-Wan settles down in the blankets and gestures for Anakin to join him. “We’ll work through this fear together, you and I,” he says as Anakin curls up in his arms, tucking his face into the crook of Kenobi’s neck and focusing on the sound of the man’s voice instead of the rumbling of the storm outside. Artoo and Threepio join them, laying down in the remaining space. “You won’t have to be afraid anymore.”

“Did you get the files?” Anakin forces himself to ask when his anxiety has eased enough to choke the words out.

“Yes,” Kenobi replies, “but we’ll talk about that in the morning. For now, just rest. It’s been a long night.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let's be honest if you were ever a teenager with siblings and boobs you almost undoubtedly stuffed something down your shirt at some point to prevent them from getting to it. It never stopped my siblings, who lack any concept of boundaries to this very day, but it's a great tactic in theory.


	15. Fifteen

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A bit short, but a chapter's a chapter. Happy holidays, to those celebrating.

Obi-Wan manages to coax him out of the closet the following morning. The storm still rages on outside the safety of the cabin walls and will likely do so until the evening at the earliest, but the thick, manila folder in Obi-Wan’s hands is temptation enough to draw Anakin from his hideaway. It’s been so long since he’s had the chance to stretch his legs, so to speak, with a case that he can’t allow himself to pass up the opportunity just because of the chaos of the weather outside. The additional praise Obi-Wan peppers him with as the older man settles him in the living room is not a bad bonus, either. The other man vanishes into the kitchen to throw together something for breakfast, and Anakin begins digging into the file.

This particular file is at least somewhat familiar, containing all the past reports and photographs from Obi-Wan’s earlier cycles. While many of his coworkers had bemoaned the department’s insistence on keeping all the information on the case together rather than breaking it up into cycles, he finds it to be a blessing in this instance. He’s going to need all the data he can get to pick out the discrepancies in the copycat murder that could lead him to their killer.

There is a roll of tape in the cabinet that Anakin uses to tape the reports and their accompanying crime scene photographs to whatever wall space he can clear. He has to take down several scenic photographs of the landscape, undoubtedly relics from Obi-Wan’s childhood, but he thinks the man will forgive him. The reports are hung oldest to newest, with the exception of those from this latest cycle and the copycat murder, whose files are set aside. He hasn’t gotten the chance to read through them yet, with his sudden disappearance right after the second murder. He’s always been a bit of a mess when it comes to organizing, but he’d found several methods over the years to help himself keep everything in its place. In the office, it had been a set of used whiteboards that Quin had brought in. He mourns the loss of them now, as it might have been a little neater than the collage he is slowly building on the walls.

Once that is complete, he settles back down on the couch with the new files. The sound of Obi-Wan chattering absently to the dogs as he cooks serves as a comforting background noise, a contrast to the pounding of the rain, and allows him to slip into his research without too much trouble. It’s a routine he’s gone through a hundred times, flipping through files, comparing and contrasting the reported information to the details of the crime scene photos.

As always, Obi-Wan’s fourteenth, fifteenth, and sixteenth murders are as close to flawless as one can get when it comes to a crime scene. Anakin feels like a teacher grading a student’s work as he goes through these reports. There are no fingerprints left behind and no trace evidence to be found that could possibly link Kenobi to the murders. The tie between the fourteenth victim, Anakin’s mother’s killer, to the missing detective had been noted, but the Negotiator’s fixation on Anakin is common knowledge around the department. The murder consequently hadn’t raised any more flags than usual.

As for victims fifteen and sixteen, the coroner had noted the recently-healed wound in Maul’s shoulder from a small knife and the puncture wounds from Artoo’s teeth in Savage’s leg. According to the report, both had been written off as hazards of their chosen profession and not the results of a back-alley brawl with a police detective, a serial-killing college professor, and their dog. When it came to a motive behind the sudden escalation from one victim to two, it had simply been assumed that Kenobi was interrupted when taking down one of the pair and had been forced to improvise. They have no idea what ties the two men to Anakin. They have, Anakin notes as he flips through the file, been desperately looking for some kind of connection, but have only come up with the proximity of the crime scene to his apartment. Anakin feels quite sorry for them, as the chances of them actually managing to figure out what happened between them are quite slim. There would have been blood residue in the alley if they’d gotten there in a reasonable amount of time, but it’s now been months and they’d be unlikely to find anything even if they looked.

He’s just digging into the report on the copycat murder when Obi-Wan returns, plates of eggs and bacon in hand. He sits on the couch next to Anakin, balancing a laptop he procured who knows where on his lap as he eats. Anakin sets his files down to eat himself, peering over Obi-Wan’s shoulder at what he’s doing on the computer. The cabin is apparently equipped with wifi in addition to the cable, even though there hasn’t been a device capable of accessing it around up until this point. Obi-Wan seems to be working on his lesson plans for the online courses he’ll be teaching at the end of the month, which is horrifically boring in comparison to Anakin’s files.

“I expect Netflix access,” he informs Obi-Wan when he picks his files back up, gesturing with it to a precariously stacked pile of dvd cases on top of the cabinet. “Ahsoka and I have gone through your entire movie collection already. We were starting to get bored.”

Obi-Wan’s eyes narrow, but concedes a terse, “We’ll see.”

Anakin will take it.

When he actually gets into the file on the copycat killer, Anakin can’t help but be embarrassed that he actually though this murder might have been committed by Obi-Wan. The elements are all there in their most basic form. The victim matches Anakin’s description: male, approximately six feet, as was typical of Kenobi’s murders up until this most recent cycle. He is posed in a public place, the steps of town hall in this case. This is where the similarities end however.

Obi-Wan sets his own work down and listens intently while Anakin explains what he sees in the crime scene photographs, only occasionally interjecting with a question. In Anakin’s opinion, this is unlikely to be the copycat’s first kill. There are few signs of hesitation that one might expect from an inexperienced killer, not to mention that there are very few defensive wounds on the victim. The man had been killed quickly and efficiently. Even so, this is undoubtedly the first time this killer has displayed a body like this, or done any kind of post-mortem mutilation. Unlike Obi-Wan’s neat cuts and unhesitant decisions, Anakin can see several places where the copycat started a cut then changed his mind, or where they had gotten squeamish halfway through a knife stroke and the blade wobbled in their distress, creating awkward, uneven lines.

“I suppose I should have expected this,” Kenobi sighs. “Such a high-profile case as mine would be bound to inspire… fans… eventually. They always do.”

Anakin shuffles the pictures around, holding one up for better inspection. “It’s not like this is the first one,” he says blandly, earning a startled look from Obi-Wan. “We’ve had other attempted copycats before; it’s just that most of them were idiots. They’d get caught stringing their victim up somewhere too public or kill someone close to them or they’d leave behind so much evidence we’d be able to track them down before it became headline news. Takes a certain person to do what you do.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment,” Obi-Wan replies. “But if you can see all of these differences, why can’t the rest of your department see them?”

“My guess would be that they don’t want to. Some of the guys have been harping for years on an escalation theory, saying that one day your pattern wouldn’t be enough and you’d start up again outside your regular season. I always called bullshit, most of the killers that we see escalate do it quickly, but I’m not there to defend you anymore. They’ll say my disappearance triggered you into action, maybe to try and draw me back out, maybe to brag about finally conquering me once and for all, whatever. They won’t care about providing a reason; they’ll just use this as a way to prove themselves right.”

“I haven’t conquered you yet,” Obi-Wan murmurs, turning his attention back to his laptop and politely ignoring the way Anakin blushes scarlet at his words. “What would you have me do, then? About this copycat?”

Anakin sighs. “I don’t know yet, Obi-Wan. Just let me think.”

“Of course, Ani. Take your time.”

* * *

 

Anakin continues to ponder the problem through the rest of the day. Obi-Wan allows him to keep the collage up as Ahsoka will be returning to Coruscant in the next few days and therefore won’t be around to ask any uncomfortable questions. He thinks on it while they eat lunch, while they let the dogs out, and now in the bathroom, warm and musty with the smell of wet dog, his hands buried in Threepio’s fur.

Letting the dogs out in the storm had proved to be a mistake. Artoo had taken great delight in rolling in the mud out in the driveway, dragging a reluctant Threepio along with him. Obi-Wan had a small conniption when he saw them sitting on the front porch, caked in the dark brown mud and completely, unequivocally a danger to the man’s carpeting. So they’d put on already dirtied clothes, scooped up a dog each, and carried the filthy, wriggling mutts up the stairs and into the master bath.

While they don’t use the master bath in their day to day routine—Obi-Wan hadn’t even bothered to put the door back up following Anakin’s breakout—the basin of the tub is large enough to hold both dogs at once rather than having one track mud everywhere while they bathe the other. Anakin gauges the temperature of the running water while Obi-Wan slips into their usual bathroom to collect the various necessities for the task at hand. A few towels are laid out on the floor to catch overflow from the dogs’ shuffling and, once the tub is full enough, they coat the animals in soap and set to work.

Threepio, who has always been good about bathing, sits quietly while Anakin scrubs the mud from his fur and gently works out the knots where they’ve formed from the dogs’ roughhousing. He cannot say the same for Artoo, however. The energetic little dog is no less excited about the bath as he is about literally everything else, wiggling and splashing in Obi-Wan’s arms as the man tries to clean him. Wet fur doesn’t help in holding the dog still, instead turning Artoo into a slippery, muddy mess that seems intent on getting as much water on Kenobi as possible.

He’s drenched in no time at all and coated in a thin layer of grime up to his forearms. He alternates between muttering under his breath and biting lightly at his bottom lip as he scrubs at the dog, working the mud from his fur with the same single-minded dedication he gives to his other pursuits. In the soft glow of the bathroom lights, hair in disarray and cheeks lightly flushed with his frustration, Anakin can’t help but pause to take him in. The numbers of times he’s seen Obi-Wan so flustered could be counted on one hand, and he doesn’t intend to let this particular opportunity go by unacknowledged.

“What?” The man huffs, noticing Anakin’s attention on him. “Do he get something on my face?”

“N-no, I just…” Anakin feels his cheeks flush. Obi-Wan is still staring at him, and Anakin isn’t entirely sure how to communicate the warm feeling that’s pooled in his gut, different from arousal but no less potent.

He doesn’t think about his decision when he leans in, brushing his lips over Obi-Wan’s in a lingering kiss. There is no reason behind this kiss; no motivation beyond simply wanting to. He’s not trying to seduce, or distract. Anakin’s just content, here in this moment, with Obi-Wan and their dogs and the storm raging outside. Kenobi shudders at the gentle contact, and when Anakin finally draws away he runs his fingers over his lips as though he can’t quite believe that just happened.

Anakin turns back to determinedly scrubbing Threepio down and tries not to notice the slightly dazed smile Kenobi wears for the rest of their endeavor.

* * *

 

“I think you’re going to have to kill again,” Anakin says as he watches the dirty water spiral down the drain. He pointedly avoids looking at Kenobi as he does so, mostly because he can’t believe he’s actually suggesting what he thinks he’s suggesting.

“Excuse me?” Obi-Wan has paused where he was collecting the dirty towels and stares at Anakin as though he’s spontaneously grown a second head.

He trips over his words, trying to force them out before he can talk himself out of what he’s about to confess. “There’s not enough in the file for me to even guess who this copycat might be. There’s no connection to the victim, no prints, no trace evidence for me to work with. Not with this first kill. If I’m going to track him down without the department’s resources, I’m going to need more data.”

“What does that have to with me taking another victim?”

“If he keeps mimicking you as skillfully as he is, he won’t ever leave enough evidence to track him down. But maybe if we force his hand. If you get out there and demonstrate that you aren’t going to just lay down and let him take the credit for your work, we might be able to rile him up enough to make a mistake.”

Obi-Wan sets the towels on the basin of the sink far more gently than towels need to be handled. Anakin suspects he’s attempting to control his temper, and is proved right when the man’s next words come out short and clipped. “He’s not the only one who could make a mistake, Anakin. With this copycat, these new murders, you coworkers are going to be out in full force looking for someone to pin these murders on. It’s not just going to be the copycat at risk.”

Anakin sighs. “Obi-Wan…”

“No, Anakin. I have no intention on risking my freedom— _our_ freedom—because of this new killer. Am I upset that he’s taking credit for my work? Certainly. But I’m not upset enough to take that risk.”

“He’s not going to stop, Kenobi!” Anakin argues, standing in attempt to feel less vulnerable. He doesn’t like having to suggest Obi-Wan kill people; it’s against literally everything Anakin has dedicated his life to. It wouldn’t hurt Kenobi to at least hear him out. “And you’re so _good_ the chances of you ever getting caught without explicitly turning yourself in are so slim I can’t even describe it. I am the foremost expert on you! Without me there, my coworkers can’t even tell you apart from him! They’re not a threat to you!”

“Your assurances are not good enough, Anakin!” Kenobi snaps. “For all I know you’re trying to use this to goad _me_ into slipping up as much as you’re trying to goad _him_.”

“Why would I do that?” Anakin ask, bewildered.

“Why would you _not!_?”

The room is plunged abruptly into tense silence. Obi-Wan stares him down, breath coming in short huffs, and understanding of what has just transpired suddenly catches up to Anakin.

Obi-Wan thinks that Anakin’s trying to manipulate him. He thinks that Anakin is attempting to use this copycat killer and Obi-Wan’s investment in the case as a way to orchestrate an escape from the cabin—from Kenobi’s custody. The accusation leaves him reeling.

A part of him is hurt that Obi-Wan believes him capable of such deception; the rest of him is disgusted that the thought of escape had never even once crossed his mind.


	16. Sixteen

When they’d fallen asleep in the closet the night before, it hadn’t seemed quite so large. The dimensions are impressive yes, Anakin can recognize that, but there’d been something about it that made it feel small, safe; like the four walls marked the boundaries of their own space, existing beyond the chaos of the storm outside and the pressures of their respective roles as captor and captive. Now, though, as Anakin sits bundled in the blankets they hadn’t gotten around to removing, staring at where Kenobi kneels in the doorway, the stretch of unassuming tan carpeting between them feels like a vast and endless distance.

“I understand that you’re mad at me,” Obi-Wan says, tone gentled and soft, as though he were speaking to a wounded animal, “but I must confess that I’m not entirely sure why.

“We have had our differences over a great many things over the past months. You were angry with me for bringing you here, angry with me for invading your space, angry with me for taking another victim. In the past, you seemed intent on butting heads with me at every possible avenue; now, you’re angry with me because I refused to something you’ve hated me for. Can you blame me for my wariness at this sudden change of heart?”

Anakin is silent, unmoving, watching Kenobi stare at his hands, scrubbing them down the length of his thighs as he collects himself. He has nothing to say—not until Obi-Wan finishes his own thoughts. “I-I am aware of what I’ve done to you; I am aware that to some people, and maybe even to you, it could be construed as a cruelty. You had a life beyond these walls, and I took that from you when I brought you here. But I did so with the best of intentions.

“I never wanted it to be this way for us. I loved the life we had in Coruscant, but I don’t know if you could ever understand how hard it was to hear you walk out your door every morning and not know if this was the day that you never came back to me. There were moments when I wanted to stop you and beg you not to go, but I didn’t. Your life was yours to live. And then everything happened with Maul and Savage and I was faced with the realization that nothing I was doing could really protect you. Life was as unpredictable as it had always been, and I’d allowed myself to be lulled into a false sense of security.

“I want to stop this killer as much as you do, Anakin, but I don’t know if I’m capable of taking the risks that you’re asking of me,” Obi-Wan says, finally looking up at him. There is an earnestness in his eyes that is both exhilarating and horrifying. “I love you, Anakin Skywalker, and I am terrified that if I do this, I’m going to lose you.”

Whatever argument Anakin might have made dies in his throat. Obi-Wan looks so lost, kneeling on the floor, curled in on himself, waiting for the fallout of his confession. While a part of him had always known, had always distantly recognized that there are very few emotions capable of motivating a man the way Kenobi is motivated, there is still something devastating about hearing the words said aloud. Obsession, possession, he could understand, but love? Is that honestly what Obi-Wan thinks this is? When he’s brought Anakin here, away from the life he’d painstakingly built for himself? When he pins Anakin down and leaves his marks on his skin? When he takes and takes and takes until Anakin thinks there are times when he has nothing left to give?

Pushing himself to his feet, Anakin crosses the large-and-not closet, closing the distance between them and kneeling on the floor in front of his companion. He catches Obi-Wan’s hands between his own to stop them from picking at a loose string on his sleep pants. “What I’m asking of you is terrible; you’re right about that. It goes against your creed just as much as it goes against my own, but it’s not a decision I’ve made lightly.

“Obi-Wan, I don’t love you,” Anakin confesses, and tries not to flinch at the devastation he sees in the other man’s eyes. Kenobi is deserving of the same honesty he’s given Anakin, if they’re ever going to move forward. “Not right now, anyways, but that doesn’t mean I’m doing this to try to hurt you. I’m not manipulating you, or trying to escape, or whatever it is you think I’m doing. I’m asking this of you because this killer needs to be stopped and, now that I’ve seen the file, because I think you’re the only one who can do that.”

“Ok,” Obi-Wan says weakly, but he’s no longer meeting Anakin’s eyes. He’s staring at the floor again.

Anakin lets go of his hands and takes hold of his chin, gently tilting Kenobi’s head upward. “Hey,” he says, “Obi-Wan, please look at me.” After a long moment, he does, watery eyes meeting Anakin’s own. “Just because I don’t feel that way _now_ doesn’t mean I won’t feel it _ever_. I’m just… I’m still adjusting to all of this.” He reaches out, then, drawing Obi-Wan to him until the other man is curled against him, head tucked beneath Anakin’s chin. It feels strange to be the one giving comfort, for once, instead of being the one receiving it.

For as powerful as Kenobi is, capable of such terrible things, he is still almost heartbreakingly fragile. Anakin knows most of the story now; knows what he had once and what he lost. Anakin’s lost, too. Maybe not as much as Obi-Wan, but he still understands the feeling. He knows what it’s like to lay your heart at someone’s feet and have it trodden all over.

“I know you’re scared; I am too. But it’s like you said last night—we’ll get through it together. I’m not going anywhere, ok?”

The “Ok,” Kenobi gives him this time is a little stronger, and Anakin feels better about the situation they’re in. While it wasn’t exactly a pleasant conversation, it was obviously one they needed to have. All the cards are on the table, now. They know where they stand; there will no more confusion for a little while, at least.

When Obi-Wan finally pulls away from Anakin, he seems a bit more composed than before. He still scrubs quickly at his eyes, still slumps with defeat, but he no longer appears to be on the verge of shattering.

“I think I’m going to go out for a bit,” Kenobi says wearily, rising to his feet. “I need to think, and I believe the distance will do us both good.”

“Ok,” Anakin replies, and doesn’t have to be told that he smile he offers falls painfully flat.

* * *

 

The sound of a car door slamming shut, accompanied by—oddly enough—muffled screaming, rouses Anakin from sleep. His back and neck and everything else hurts after spending part of the night curled up on the couch, too small for his lanky frame, but he’d wanted to know when Obi-Wan returned. He hadn’t come back by the time they usually went upstairs to bed, and Anakin’s attempts to sleep in their room swiftly proved futile. The bed seemed so empty without Kenobi there with him. Prying himself from the couch and over to front door, Anakin flicks on the porch light and sighs at the sight before him.

Obi-Wan is out in the driveway, leaning over the opened trunk of the car. Whatever is within doesn’t seem to be cooperating with him, and Anakin can read the frustration in the line of his shoulders from here. He ducks down, lightning quick, and when he straightens out he’s pulling out the trunk’s contents: a man, gagged and bound. He thrashes in Kenobi’s grip as he’s dragged across the gravel and toward the cabin by his ankles, screaming against the fabric tied around his mouth. It’s likely an uncanny impression of Anakin on his own first day here—minus the gag, of course. Obi-Wan probably would have been jealous of whatever fabric he could have shoved in Anakin’s mouth.

He pads out onto the porch, the dogs tumbling out after him. The night’s chill nips at his skin, and he rubs his arms with his hands as he descends the steps. Artoo and Threepio sniff curiously at Kenobi’s unwilling companion, jumping out of the way when the man lashes out with another muted howl. Anakin doesn’t know why the guy bothers; it’s not like Threepio and Artoo are particularly intimidating specimens. What he does know is that he’s going to be beyond pissed if their unexpected visitor gets a lucky shot and hurts his dogs with all that wiggling around.

“What the hell is this, Obi-Wan?” Anakin huffs as he stomps over to the man, heedless of the way the gravel of the driveway scrapes at his feet. Obi-Wan releases his grip on the man’s legs, which drop to the ground with a _thump_. “I thought you were going out just to _think_?”

“I did my thinking,” Kenobi says, “and while I was out, I came to a decision.”

“And what decision is that?”

“That you are right. The copycat needs to be stopped, and your former coworkers are going to be completely inadequate at the task. I have to do it, and I can’t let my fear of losing you hold me back any longer. You aren’t going anywhere, and work needs to be done.”

“Ok, but what does any of that have to do with _this guy_?” Anakin asks, gesturing down to their unwilling third party.

 _This Guy_ , a balding, middle-aged man in a worn coat and stained jeans, has been slowly but determinedly pulling himself across the gravel by his bound arms since Obi-Wan let go of his legs. He hasn’t gotten very far, between the hindrances of the bindings on his ankles and stopping to wave the dogs off every few feet, but there’s something to be said for persistence. Kenobi follows Anakin’s gaze as he watches the captive wiggle along, frowning when he realizes that the man’s actually managed to get about halfway to the tree line during the course of their conversation. Not that it would have done him any good; Anakin knows firsthand how miserable things are out in the woods even without the bindings.

Obi-Wan stalks over to the man, who squirms faster in his desperation to get away, throwing a sharp, “You weren’t going to _say anything_?” over his shoulder as he goes.

Anakin shrugs. “You would have figured it out eventually; it’s not like he can actually get very far.”

Hauling the man back over to where Anakin stands, Obi-Wan plants a foot on his chest to prevent any further escapades. The man has since gone from screaming to letting out soft, whimpering sobs, and his struggling has all but ceased. Anakin, intimately familiar with what this guy is going through, knows that this is where the hopelessness sets in. He’ll probably get some fight back in him later, when he isn’t quite so exhausted from what whatever Obi-Wan used to subdue him and he’s had time to plan an escape or two, but for now they can probably finish their conversation without further disruption.

“It’s not hard to find a mugger in Coruscant, especially for a well-dressed man who just happens to walk past an inordinate number of dark alleys,” Obi-Wan explains. “As you seemed to be less angry with me for killing Maul and Savage after you found out who they were, I’ve come to the conclusion that you don’t feel as guilty about the deaths of criminal types as you do about the innocent men I used to lure out of bars. I figured I’d locate a suitable victim for you to approve while I was there and save myself the trip.”

Anakin glowers at him. “And what would you _do_ with this guy if I say no? It’s not like you can just let him go without risking him spilling everything to the first cop he comes across. Were you planning on starting a harem of abduction victims to keep you entertained in your free time?”

The surprised, I-hadn’t-thought-of-that look Obi-Wan gives him is almost convincing. Almost. It would have been more effective if Anakin hadn’t been living with the man for months now and gotten wise to pretty much all of his tricks. This is another power play, though Kenobi would never admit it. By dragging this latest victim back to the cabin, he’s forcing Anakin to face the decision he’s made. There will be no running from this; no placing the blame entirely on Obi-Wan’s shoulders. He will be an accessory to this murder, and to every one after.

Obi-Wan is testing the loyalty Anakin’s sworn to him as much as he’s reasserting his place as the one in control of their relationship. Anakin may have talked him into this, but he is still the one picking victims. He’s chosen a criminal to humor Anakin, and the unspoken threat hangs in the air between them. If he decided to go back to his usual victimology, Anakin would ultimately have nothing to say on the matter.

“Whatever,” Anakin grumbles. “Just grab your guy and let’s go back in the house. It’s freezing out here.”

The man starts screaming with renewed vigor when Kenobi steps off him and bends down, hauling him up over one shoulder instead of dragging him as he’d done prior. Anakin whistles for the dogs and leads the strange procession back up the steps and into the cabin, trying to ignore the noise. Anakin is distantly aware that he should be more upset about this entire situation, and chalks the whole matter up to having made his peace with Obi-Wan killing again. The copycat needs to be stopped, and this is still the only feasible option without Anakin out there on the ground with his former colleagues.

Kenobi unlocks the basement door with the key around his neck, giving Anakin a pointed look before he disappears down the steps with his captive. Yeah, yeah, don’t go down there; he knows the drill by now.

For all the privileges Anakin’s been given since he first arrived at the cabin, the basement is still strictly off-limits. The key remains around Obi-Wan’s neck despite the fact that it’s the only one left on the chain, and the cabin’s lowest floor remains a mystery to the former detective. Sometimes Anakin will think on what might possibly be down there, but most of the time he’s pretty sure that he doesn’t want to know. Obi-Wan would rather give him access to the striking collection of knives he keeps for cooking than let him in the basement, which probably says something about its contents. When he peeks down the stairs, the door left open in Kenobi’s wake, all he sees is a bare expanse of concrete flooring.

“I’m going to bed,” he yells down, but receives no response. Shrugging mostly to himself, he turns and pads away. Obi-Wan will join him whenever he’s done getting their… guest… situated.

* * *

 

“This is ridiculous,” Anakin grumbles, stuffing another piece of bacon in his mouth at the table the following morning. The house is lit by the soft, morning light; the air is thick with the scent of freshly-made coffee; that guy Kenobi brought back last night is tied to the chair between Obi-Wan and Anakin.

“Everyone needs to eat, Anakin,” Kenobi primly informs him, smearing butter on a biscuit and placing it on their guest’s paper plate, where it will most likely go untouched. “And I doubt our friend here had the chance to eat last night. It was still rather early when I picked him up.”

“I’m sure he’s going to be real appreciative for it when you kill him later.”

They both look at their captive, whose name Anakin hasn’t bothered to ask. He does not weigh in on the matter, instead poking at his meal with a plastic fork and the enthusiasm of a man who knows the end is near—which is to say, none at all. Anakin would take his plate from him and eat it himself so that it doesn’t go to waste, except there is the distinct possibility that its contents have been tampered with. Anakin had been left to watch the guy when Obi-Wan cooked, and doesn’t know if the whole sedatives thing is part of his regular routine, or if Anakin is just special. It was never in the coroner’s reports, but depending on what he’d used, it could have broken down too quickly for them to catch it.

Obi-Wan makes the sort of noise that suggests he’s disappointed with Anakin’s hospitality toward their ill-fated friend and sips at the mug of tea he’s made himself. The cabinets are readily stocked with a variety of coffees, but Anakin has come to learn that Kenobi actually prefers tea. Coffee is reserved for when he goes to town, or when the spring semester starts and he’s suddenly drowning in papers to grade. Anakin doesn’t know how he does it; he needs coffee in the mornings nearly as much as he needs oxygen.

“I’m going to go clean up,” Kenobi announces when he’s done with his cup, collecting his and Anakin’s plates to wash (they’ve recently upgraded from the disposable kind) and the captive’s to throw away. “Watch him.”

It’s quiet for a long moment when Obi-Wan vanishes into the kitchen. Anakin has no real desire to talk to this guy, and watching him really just involves making sure he doesn’t tip the chair over and try to wiggle away. His hands are unbound so that he could eat, but the knots on the rope tying his legs and torso to the chair are beyond his limited reach. Anakin stares at the guy; the guy stares at his own hands as they flex and curl against the tabletop.

“You have let me out of here,” he finally says, looking up at Anakin desperately. Anakin ignores him, sipping at his own mug, so the man continues, only louder. “Please, you have to untie me!”

“I don’t _have_ to do anything.”

“Please! I have a family! You have to let me go, man!”

Anakin’s mug slams to the surface of the table with a loud _thunk_ , lukewarm coffee splashing over the rim. The man flinches at the sudden motion. “Do you have _any idea_ what he’d do to me if I let you out?” Anakin snarls. “What would you even do if I did? He carries the only key to the car, you can’t beat him in a fight, and I can tell you firsthand that you’d freeze to death if you tried to walk down the mountain.”

“There has to be a way—!”

“There’s _not_! I’ve been stuck here for months! If there was a way out of here, I would have found it by now.” Slumping back into his chair, Anakin sighs. “You’re better off just accepting it.”

The man whimpers. “I can’t die here.”

“If it makes you feel any better—which it probably won’t—his victims never suffer long,” Anakin says with a bravado he doesn’t feel. The realization that this is actually happening is quickly catching up to him. “And besides, it’s for a good cause; you’re going to help us catch a serial killer.”

The man scowls at Anakin and is, predictably, unmoved by his words.

Obi-Wan returns shortly after, wiping his hands dry on a dish towel. “I trust you’ve both behaved?” He asks as he sets the towel down on the table, then moving over to stand behind the man’s chair. He runs a hand through Anakin’s hair as he goes, and it takes a great deal not to flinch. As accustomed as he is to Kenobi’s contact, the weight of the situation has settled on him, making him jittery.

Anakin watches on with forced dispassion as Kenobi reties the man’s hands, then undoes the rest of his bindings. He tugs him from the chair, holding him by the wrists with one hand and placing the other on the man’s shoulder. “Anything you might want to say?” Obi-Wan asks, pleasant enough to set Anakin’s teeth on edge.

His captive stares Anakin down with pleading eyes, a last, desperate, “Please,” slipping softly from his lips. Anakin averts his gaze.

He doesn’t look up from the tabletop when he hears Kenobi moving, hears the man thrashing, hears him hurling verbal abuse at Obi-Wan in place of the physical. He only moves when he hears the basement door slam shut, scrambling up the stairs and into the bathroom only just in time to throw up his meal for the first time in weeks. He hears his own voice ringing in his ears.

_It’s for a good cause._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh dang! If ya'll haven't seen them yet, you should definitely go check out the aesthetic photosets that Jedi-Obibunny-Kenobi made on tumblr! Here's some links!  
> [ Obi-Wan, Professor](http://jedi-obibunny-kenobi.tumblr.com/post/154771166227/aesthetics-inspired-by-negotiation-by-glare-on-ao3)  
> [ Anakin, Detective](http://jedi-obibunny-kenobi.tumblr.com/post/154773698607/aesthetics-inspired-by-negotiation-by-glare-on-ao3)  
> [ Obi-Wan, Killer](http://jedi-obibunny-kenobi.tumblr.com/post/154774047297/aesthetics-inspired-by-negotiation-by-glare-on-ao3)  
> [ Anakin, Captive](http://jedi-obibunny-kenobi.tumblr.com/post/154778582757/aesthetics-inspired-by-negotiation-by-glare-on-ao3)  
> [ Cohabitation ](http://jedi-obibunny-kenobi.tumblr.com/post/155349617022/aesthetics-inspired-by-negotiation-by-glare-on-ao3)


	17. Seventeen

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is a bit short, but it's got the Stuff in it. 
> 
> You know.
> 
> The _Good Stuff_

Anakin is not entirely sure how long he stays under the shelter of the blankets, curled up in the center of their bed. The taste of bile lingers on his tongue despite the thorough scrubbing he gave his mouth when he’d finally stopped heaving, and there is an emptiness in his chest that he can’t seem to fill. It’s guilt, he knows, for what he’s done; guilt for asking Obi-Wan for the one thing he thought he never could. He feels hollow—a shell of the Anakin Skywalker he’d once been proud to be.

Downstairs, he hears the basement door open and close. Footsteps tread, accompanied by the click of the dogs’ nails on the hardwood floor, and a familiar creak alerts him to the opening of the front door. Obi-Wan must be done with his… business… in the basement, then. Anakin can’t imagine him interrupting himself halfway for the sake of a smoke break; he’s far too single-minded for that.  

Heaving himself from the sanctuary of the blankets takes far more effort than it rightfully should, but Anakin forces himself from their confines. The emptiness in his chest is eating away at him, and he doesn’t want to be alone right now. He will take Obi-Wan’s company over no company at all, if only to combat the aching void.

He finds Kenobi on the front porch, staring out into the woods, where the dogs play in the dead underbrush. His hands are clean, but his shirt and pants are spattered with blood. His hair has fallen out of its neat styling, the fringe hanging down past his forehead, and cigarette burns between his fingertips. When he turns to acknowledge Anakin’s presence, there’s that familiar wildness in his eyes. He says nothing, waiting for the former detective to make the first move.

Anakin steps up to his side in silence, snatching the pack of cigarettes and the lighter from where they rest on the railing. He draws one from the pack and places it between his lips, trying to light it with shaking hands. It doesn’t work, as hard as he’s trembling, and he’s about to give up when Obi-Wan takes the lighter from his grip and does it for him.

“I didn’t know you smoked,” Obi-Wan comments, finally breaking the silence between them.

Anakin drags in a deep lungful of smoke, coughing and sputtering almost immediately afterwards. He hasn’t smoked since he was a teenager, and he’s out of practice. “I don’t.”

Kenobi chuckles, taking a pull from his own cigarette and blowing the smoke away from Anakin. “I don’t, either.”

They say nothing else. Anakin’s eyes are fixed firmly on the woods beyond, but he knows that Obi-Wan is staring at him. He can feel it, the intensity raising hairs on the back of his neck. It’s a stare he’s familiar with, Kenobi is prone to staring, but there’s something about it now that makes it impossible to ignore; it is the look of a predator as they stalk their prey.

He blames it on the hollowness in his chest when Obi-Wan plucks the cigarette from his fingers, grinding it out on the small ashtray he’s placed on the railing; when watches as Kenobi snubs out his own; when he’s compliant as he’s turned until his back is resting against the rail, Obi-Wan’s hands settling on either side of his hips. He blames it on the emptiness when he meets Obi-Wan’s lips halfway.

It starts slow, soft, the taste of smoke lingering like that first kiss they shared on the couch in Kenobi’s old apartment. The only thing Obi-Wan is drunk off now, however, is death. His scruff scratches at the skin of lips and cheeks, and his hands clutch at Anakin’s hips in counterpoint to the gentleness of the kiss. His tongue sweeps across Anakin’s lower lip, and Anakin grants him entry. Unsure of what to do with his arms, Anakin wraps them around Kenobi’s neck.

A soft groan escapes the older man when their tongues meet, Anakin ceding to Obi-Wan’s control and allowing him to explore the cavern of his mouth. Kenobi presses forward, harder, pouring a passion into the kiss that has Anakin answering in kind. The hands on his waist slip down past his ass, and he gets the idea when Obi-Wan pulls at him, wrapping his legs around the man’s hips and tightening the grip he has on his neck.

“The dogs—” he breathes, a fleeting rational thought as Kenobi carries him into the house.

“They know not to wander,” Obi-Wan replies, carefully lowering himself down onto the couch, Anakin in his lap.

The kiss resumes only briefly, their hips grinding together until Obi-Wan pushes him gently off his lap a moment later. Hands settle on Anakin’s shoulders, pressing down until he’s on his knees between Kenobi’s splayed legs. The hardwood floor is not comfortable, but neither is the hand that tangles in his hair, pulling him forward—down—until he’s forced to brace his palms against Obi-Wan’s hips to keep some semblance of distance between them.

The man’s free hand fumbles with the waistband of his pants, pushing it down just far enough to free his cock from its confines. It springs up, swollen and erect, the tip glistening with the first drops of pre-cum, and Anakin stiffens at the sight of it.

There’s a long pause between them, an unnatural stillness, and the hand in his hairs loosens its grip. “Hey, it’s ok, sweetheart,” he hears Obi-Wan croon, somewhere distant as the next galaxy. The hand previously holding him strokes along his skull soothingly. “You don’t have to. I won’t make you.”

He could say _no_ ; Anakin knows this as fact. Kenobi may poke and prod at ambiguous boundaries, but he has respect for a solidly-drawn line. If Anakin were to say no, he’d be released. Kenobi would let him free to hide somewhere in the house and would take care of the matter at hand himself, no questions asked. The word is on his tongue in that moment, with Obi-Wan’s fingers scratching against his scalp and his dick warm against Anakin’s cheek and the smell of a musk that’s distinctly _Kenobi_ dominating his senses; he almost says it. Almost.

But he doesn’t, because that emptiness is still eating away at his insides. He doesn’t want Obi-Wan to let him go; he doesn’t want to be left alone with his grief and his guilt. The hand in his hair is grounding against the weightlessness he feels, and Obi-Wan’s voice is a firm tether to the here and now. So instead he turns his head just enough to mouth gently at the base of Kenobi’s cock, smiling to himself at the breathless “ _Oh—_ ” the simple contact draws from the older man. The fingers in his hair tighten again, and when Anakin looks up, the man’s eyes are screwed shut.

He kisses his way up the shaft, taking hold of Kenobi’s cock and licking the liquid from its tip. He places another kiss there before swiping his tongue across his palm, getting it get wet, and grabbing firm hold of the man once again as he swallows down what he can of Obi-Wan’s length.

It has been a while since Anakin sucked cock mostly due to being stuck in the cabin, but the rhythm is easy enough to fall back into. Obi-Wan is not impressively long, comfortable enough that he can fit most of it in his mouth without choking, but thick enough that Anakin can feel his jaw protest at being held open. A distant part of his mind absently wonders what Kenobi would feel like inside him—stretching him open and filling him up with this cock, but Anakin ruthlessly smothers the idea. He may be willing to do this, but _that_ is something else entirely that he doesn’t think he’s ready to give.

“Oh, you’re so— _Ah!—_ so good for me, Anakin,” Obi-Wan hisses, a curse falling from his lips when Anakin carefully drags teeth along his shaft. “Such a good boy. Here, like this.”

The hand in his hair turns from simply holding to guiding, leading him in a steady rhythm that turns Kenobi’s breaths ragged. He guides Anakin further down on his cock than Anakin might prefer, but not enough to make him gag. He works what he can’t fit with a spit-slicked hand, stroking in time with the bob of his head.

“Oh, Anakin, I think I’m—” Kenobi gasps, hips twitching up off the couch. He’s been good about not thrusting up into Anakin’s mouth so far—more considerate than some of Anakin’s past lovers—but his control seems to be slipping with the approach of his orgasm. “Fuck— oh, fuck, Anakin!”

He chokes on the salty, bitter taste that blooms on his tongue, thrashing in attempt to tear himself loose from the grip that Obi-Wan has on his hair. He is obliged only in that Kenobi’s cock slides from his mouth, caught again before he can get any further; his eyes screw closed as the rest of the man’s climax spatters across his cheek and the bridge of his nose.

There is a long pause between them, broken only by Obi-Wan’s heaving breaths, and Anakin doesn’t dare move for fear of worsening the mess that’s already been made.

“Don’t move,” Kenobi finally says, accompanied by the sound of fabric rustling, then something is being wiped across his face to clean away the traces of Obi-Wan’s orgasm. Anakin blinks open his eyes in time to watch Obi-Wan throw his ruined shirt to the floor, bared torso on full display and covered in a thin sheen of sweat. “Come ‘ere,” he slurs, tugging Anakin up off the floor and back into his lap. Pulling Anakin into a deep, messy kiss, he slips his hand up Anakin’s thigh and kneads at the outline of his own erection, brushing his fingers over the wet spot slowly growing on the fabric. “You’re so good for me.”

Anakin gasps when the man reaches down past the band of his pants, drawing his cock out and stroking it in the same smooth rhythm he’d guided Anakin through. He bites at Anakin’s throat as he works, whispers in his ear—soft praises and lewd promises of things to come. It takes biting down on his lower lip to keep from moaning as Obi-Wan describes in painstaking detail just how he’d like to take Anakin: how he’d touch him, how he’d taste, how he’s feel around his—

Climax takes him by surprise, suddenly upon him when he’d thought he’d still had a ways to go. He paints Obi-Wan’s chest, then collapses against him, boneless and uncaring about the mess he’s trapped between them. Calloused fingers play absently with the feathery hairs at the nape of his neck as he pants into the hollow of Kenobi’s throat, the man still absently rambling on about how _good_ Anakin is. Anakin doesn’t feel _good_.

Cracking his eyes open, he tilts his head up to see Obi-Wan watching him with a half-lidded gaze. It’s possessive, adoring, but the beast within is sated for now. In the future, he’ll want more. He’ll want more, and however unsure Anakin is about wanting to give it, he is even more unsure about his ability to resist. Loathe as he may be to admit it, he _belongs_ to Obi-Wan now, more than he ever did in the past. Before, he had been himself. He was Anakin Skywalker, Coruscant Police Department Detective and captive to Obi-Wan Kenobi. He can no longer claim that title. Now he is an accomplice, a partner, his fate tied tightly and inextricably to Obi-Wan’s own. Escape is no longer an option—had stopped being an option a long time ago, if he’s being honest with himself.

That aching, empty thing in his chest gives another vicious pulse when Obi-Wan extricates himself from below Anakin. He wants to cling to the other man, beg him not to leave, but instead he curls in on himself, fists his fingers in his ruined shirt, and waits for whatever happens next.

Obi-Wan walks away from him, the front door opens, the dogs rush in. He observes the whole scene with a strange sense of detachment; he doesn’t even stir when Kenobi returns, scooping him off the couch and up into his arms. There are words being spoken, he can feel the rumbling of Obi-Wan’s chest as he carries Anakin up the stairs and into their bedroom, but he fails to string them together into anything coherent. All he can do is sit there when Kenobi sets him gently on the mattress, stripping him of his ruined shirt and stained pants and tossing them carelessly to the floor. Obi-Wan does the same to his own pants, stained with still-drying blood, and Anakin absently notes that he sat on the couch like that. Anakin sat on _him_ like that.

Afterward, Obi-Wan joins him, dragging him under the covers and holding Anakin to his chest. He murmurs sweet things in his ear and gently pets him until the exhaustion he feels drags him under.

The hollowness in his chest aches just a bit less.


	18. Eighteen

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one isn't very exciting, but necessary for plot progression. Also contains descriptions of a crime scene so. U know.

Judging by the warm light streaming in from the window and the stiffness of disuse in Anakin’s muscles, it must be nearing noon by the time he finally rouses from sleep. This in itself is not terribly alarming. With the stress of his past few days, it was really only a matter of time before the exhaustion from it all caught up to him. What is strange is that Obi-Wan hadn’t woken him. Usually the man would drag Anakin from bed no later than ten, micromanaging their schedules to keep them on some form of routine. Kenobi, Anakin has come to find, relies heavily on routine in his day to day life.

He throws an arm out across the mattress in search of his bedmate, only to find the expanse of sheets that Obi-Wan usually occupies cold. Rolling over, Anakin scowls at them and wonders where Kenobi might have gotten to until he notices a note on the nightstand. It takes a great deal of effort to roll far enough to reach it, a large part of him wanting to simply curl back up beneath the sheets and luxuriate in this rare time alone, but he does finally pluck the paper off the table.

_Anakin,_

_It is still quite early as I depart, so I will not wake you before I go. I must take our friend to Coruscant before he makes further mess of the basement. The dogs have been fed, but will likely need to be let out when you wake. There is breakfast for you in the fridge; please eat it. I know you kept down very little yesterday. I will be back as soon as I’m able._

_With love,_

_Obi-Wan._

Anakin groans at the mention of yesterday, crumbling the note in his fist and tossing the wadded paper to the floor as the memories come flooding back. His actions had seemed like a good idea at the time, but now that he’s away from Obi-Wan’s magnetic presence, he can’t believe he did that. The worst part about the whole matter, he thinks, is that he isn’t even surprised it happened. It was bound to happen eventually. Ever since Obi-Wan kissed him for the first time, Anakin knew it was only a matter of time. No matter how often he told himself it wouldn’t.

The fact of the matter is, he’s been alone with no one but Obi-Wan or Ahsoka for months. In the face of this extremely narrowed social circle, he could hold out against Obi-Wan’s advances only so long. So no, he’s not surprised—just disappointed in himself for surrendering in a moment when Obi-Wan was covered in blood and quite literally stunk of death.

Climbing from the security of the blankets, Anakin wanders downstairs to see to the dogs. They’re enthusiastic about finally getting to go out, Obi-Wan having left quite early. Anakin briefly considers asking Kenobi about the possibility of installing a dog door in the future. While there is always the danger of the pair wandering too far, at last they’d have the freedom to come and go as they pleased rather than having to wait for someone to let them out.

He stands on the front porch, looking out on the woods as they’d done the previous evening. In his first few weeks, the quiet had nearly driven Anakin mad, accustomed as he was to the hustle and bustle of city life. Now, he drinks the fresh air in greedily, lingering tension in his shoulders unwinding with the rustle of the bared branches in the wind and the crunch of the dogs’ footsteps in the dry underbrush. He returns to the entryway to snag Obi-Wan’s heavy coat and his shoes before trudging back out of the house and down the stairs, meeting the dogs in the driveway.

They follow him as he begins a leisurely stroll down the driveway, not really going anywhere in particular. He hadn’t gotten the chance to see much when Obi-Wan first brought him here, what with being tied up in the man’s backseat, and curiosity is starting to get the better of him. With Kenobi around all the time, he hasn’t gotten the opportunity to explore very far from the house. He’s taking the man’s extended absence as a chance to stretch his legs and think. Motion has always helped his restless mind, and there’s only so much one can do when locked up in the cabin.

The crunch of gravel underfoot serves as a rhythmic background noise to Anakin and the dogs’ walk. There really isn’t much to see with most of the plant life having gone dormant for the winter, but occasionally he’ll catch a glimpse of movement in the underbrush as the small, wild things of the woods go about their business. Artoo bolts after them, yapping excitedly, but the dog’s little legs aren’t nearly fast enough to catch his quarry and he comes trotting back a moment later, tongue lolling from his mouth. Threepio doesn’t stray from Anakin’s side, keeping pace with his owner and sending his smaller companion the canine equivalent of a disgusted look whenever Artoo returns from his endeavors.

“I’m so stupid,” Anakin says to the dogs, kicking up gravel as he walks. “I can’t believe I fucking blew him last night. I can’t believe you two let me do that.”

Threepio whines, a plaintive sound. He doesn’t understand a word of what Anakin’s saying, but he’s been around his owner long enough to know that if Anakin starts talking, it’s his job to make some kind of sound whenever there’s pause in the conversation.

“I know, I know, I’m a grown man, capable of making my own decisions. You’re right, I should have known better.”

Artoo, always quick on the uptake, barks his input as Anakin leads them off the road and a few yards into the woods, sitting down on a fallen log and putting his face in his hands.

“What am I going to do?” He asks them, but this time, they remain silent.

* * *

 

There’s a plate of eggs and bacon in the fridge awaiting Anakin when he returns. He looks at it for a long moment, weighs the prospect of eating against the nausea roiling in his gut, and promptly splits its contents between the dogs’ bowls. Obi-Wan told him to eat, but he’s not particularly hungry this morning. Anxiety is clawing at the corners of his mind, both anticipating and dreading Kenobi’s return. On one hand, the longer Obi-Wan stays away, the more concerned Anakin becomes that something has gone horribly wrong and the man’s been arrested; on the other, he doesn’t really want to deal with the repercussions that may come with his actions the previous evening. He’d hoped his walk would have worked out some of the excess energy boiling under his skin, but it hasn’t helped at all.

When he flicks on the television, he discovers that there has been no news coverage of Obi-Wan’s latest crime scene. This can mean one of three things:

First, that the police haven’t discovered the body yet. Unlikely, as high visibility is part of Kenobi’s modus operandi.

Second, the news outlets just haven’t received their information yet. Slightly more likely, but Anakin knows the Coruscant media scene. They’re a bunch of ambulance chasers, and they’re usually on a crime scene as soon as it’s reported.

The third, and most likely, option is that whatever Obi-Wan decided to do with this particular victim managed to get under somebody’s skin, instigating a media blackout. Whoever it was has to be pretty powerful to be able to control the often rebellious cast of characters at the various news outlets. Anakin knows for a fact that a few of them would eat the fines and potential legal charges without a second thought for the chance to break a story. Ratings, after all, are everything.

He leaves the television on with the volume up as he goes about his business so that he’ll hear if something changes. There is laundry to be done, dishes to wash, and the dogs are in need of another bath after their jaunt through the woods. Threepio has mud caked in his fur after splashing in a stream they passed, and Artoo rolled in something that doesn’t smell particularly pleasant.

Anakin has only just started scrubbing Artoo dry when he hears the tinny blare of music the station plays with its breaking news. Either the media blackout has finally been called off, or someone went ahead and jumped the gun. He doesn’t particularly care which it is—only what the broadcast has to say about Obi-Wan’s latest crime scene. Artoo is still sopping wet, but Threepio is dry, so Anakin simply bundles the dog in a towel and carries him downstairs. There’s less carpeting to ruin down there, anyways.

By the time he hits the bottom of the stairs, the broadcast has already started. Anakin adjusts his grip on the wriggling dog in his arms and settling on the couch, scrubbing at Artoos fur as he watches.

The news reporter on the television is standing in an eerily familiar park, the trail behind her cordoned off by the florescent yellow of police tape and the contrasting navy of the uniforms that guard it. Once upon a time, Anakin had often taken strolls with Threepio through that very park whenever his schedule and the dog’s nerves would allow. Unlike many of the other parks in Coruscant, Temple Park was geared to a more subdued population, lacking playgrounds and their populations of screaming children that would assuredly send Threepio into fits of hysteria. Walking there, occasionally accompanied by Quinlan when they had work to discuss, had been a comforting break from his day to day life. Anakin supposes he shouldn’t be surprised that Obi-Wan knew about that, too.

“ _We’re here in Temple Park today where another grizzly crime scene has been discovered, and while there has been no official confirmation by police, it seems as though this murder may be yet another in the string committed by the serial killer the public calls the Negotiator.”_

The camera zooms in to the best of its abilities on a harried-looking Quinlan Vos. The angle is poor due to the crowd outside the tape and the image is a bit shaky, but Anakin is familiar enough with the man to know his body language even with these hindrances. There’s a card in Vos’ hands, and though the camera is too far away to see what the cover reads, it’s made Anakin’s former partner quite upset. He almost wants to know what Kenobi wrote this time, if only so he can try and predict what Quin might do next.

Then there is the crime scene itself.

Obi-Wan has left the body of his recent victim in the small corner of the park dedicated to a few chess tables for the residents to play on. While Anakin himself never played, there is a certain symbolism to Kenobi’s crime scenes that he’s maintained in this particular work. The victim has been left in the chairs on either side of one of the tables. On the side of the white pieces, the body itself is slumped lifelessly, one hand extended to lay upon the table as though reaching out for the piece that’s been claimed by its opponent. On the other side, severed cleanly from the rest of the body and propped up by a few stones likely claimed from the edges of the trail, lays the man’s head. Anakin has no idea how Obi-Wan managed that in their basement, but he’s quite certain he doesn’t want to know. It just sits there, staring blankly out upon the chess board and the white queen that’s been claimed by its own black pieces.

The reporter babbles on about how early-morning joggers had stumbled upon the horrific scene, but Anakin’s attention is abruptly turned elsewhere when a pair of hands settles on his shoulders. He starts at the unexpected contact, nearly dropping Artoo in the process. It’s only when he feels the scratch of a beard against the skin of his neck, smells the lingering scent of cigarettes, does he settle. Obi-Wan. He hadn’t heard the man come back.

“And here I thought you didn’t want to get caught,” Anakin huffs as the other man rounds the arm of the couch, dropping into the open seat beside him and throwing an arm around Anakin’s shoulders. Artoo takes the opportunity to wiggle free, bounding over to the dog bed to lay beside Threepio. “You were supposed to piss off the copycat, not the cops.”

“One can have the best of both, I think. A man playing chess against his own head; a police department trying to catch a killer collaborating with its own lead detective. I couldn’t pass up the opportunity for the symbolism.”

“You mean you couldn’t pass up the opportunity to rub everything in their face.” Anakin snarks.

Kenobi hums, ceding the point with a soft, “Perhaps.”

“Drama whore.”

The comment earns him a grin. Obi-Wan’s hands skim down his arm, fingers tracing the scar that mars Anakin’s right forearm, seemingly content to just to sit with him for the time being. Anakin doesn’t mind, leaning into his chest and tilting his head back to rest on Obi-Wan’s shoulder.

Of course, the moment is abruptly ruined when Kenobi asks the perfectly innocent question of, “How was breakfast? I know eggs may not microwave well, but it was quite early when I left…”

Anakin stiffens, tries to sputter out something about everything being fine, but Obi-Wan immediately knows that something is off; he’s spent too long studying Anakin’s behavior to not. His hand slides back up his arm, curling around Anakin’s throat in a demand for honesty that still manages to be intimidating even knowing that Kenobi would never do him lasting harm. “You did eat this morning, didn’t you, Anakin?” He asks, and Anakin flinches at the edge in his tone.

“I, um,” Anakin starts, interrupted by the rumbling of his own traitorous stomach. He’d honestly intended to eat, but had gotten caught up in his chores for the day and lost track of time.

Obi-Wan sighs. “I’m going to take that as a no, then.” He withdraws, getting to his feet to stand in front of Anakin. “Honestly, what I am I going to do with you?”

Anakin allows Obi-Wan to help him up and guide him to the kitchen. He expects the man to settle him on his usual chair at the island, but instead finds himself let to the countertop. Left alone for a minute while Obi-Wan collects ingredients for their meal, Anakin is pleasantly surprised by this turn of events. Despite the growth of trust between them with the removal of the lock on the cabinets, he hasn’t been allowed to aid in meal preparation or handle anything sharper than a butter knife until now.

Not that he really would have been much help. Anakin has never had much skill in the kitchen. Cliegg Lars had been a busy man, working two jobs just to keep a roof over their heads and food on the table. Meals were quick and cheap—whatever could be made with minimal attention and still manage to fill the stomachs of the two boys he was raising. While Obi-Wan is no culinary genius, his own skills still far surpass Anakin’s.

This becomes apparent when he’s relegated to cutting vegetables, mangling half a carrot before Obi-Wan stills his hand, shifting to stand behind him. “You, Anakin Skywalker, are making a mess,” Kenobi chuckles, covering Anakin’s hands with his own. “Here, like this.”

Obi-Wan guides him through the motions, producing more uniform slices. “You’re better at this than I am,” Anakin says when Kenobi allows him to try again on his own, wrapping his arms around Anakin’s waist instead and propping his chin on the younger man’s shoulder. These are less ugly than his first attempt, but still don’t stand up to Obi-Wan’s neat cuts.

“You’ll get better with practice.”

There’s something ominous about the way Kenobi says it that makes him swallow reflexively. When Anakin glances at him, he’s wearing a distant expression, as though looking into a future only he can see. Anakin gets the feeling that he isn’t strictly talking about vegetables.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> While we were away, several artists made some wonderful fan art for this fic!  
> [ Detective Skywalker ](http://jerseytigermoth.tumblr.com/post/155578565187/a-little-gift-for-glare-gryphon-her-au-police) by jerseytigermoth  
> [ Obi-Wan ](http://jedi-obibunny-kenobi.tumblr.com/post/155865419102/the-negotiator-well-i-had-wanted-to-add-anakin) by [ BigWolfPup](http://archiveofourown.org/users/bigwolfpup/pseuds/bigwolfpup)  
> [ Ahsoka ](http://inheavenlygrass.tumblr.com/post/155835600947/oh-god-im-at-it-again-this-is-humanahsoka-from) and [ CH10 Bedroom Scene ](http://inheavenlygrass.tumblr.com/post/156057971837/i-need-to-go-hide-in-my-shame-cave-of-shame-more) by [ inheavenlygrass ](http://archiveofourown.org/users/inheavenlygrass/pseuds/inheavenlygrass)
> 
> Thank you all so much! Everybody go yell at them for their amazing works!


	19. Nineteen

**Present**

Following his abrupt and unexpected announcement, Anakin ceases talking to anyone. No matter how much Quin _asksbegsdemands_ answers for that particular statement, Anakin cannot find it within himself to explain. So he doesn’t. He closes his mouth and does not open it again—not when he’d dragged back into the interrogation room and not when he’s cuffed to the table and not when he’s fingerprinted again for the sake of documentation. Quin stomps from the room after, but doesn’t stay away long. When he returns, he’s pushing a cart that carries an old television and a DVD player. Anakin watches him curiously as he orients it in clear sight, then slips a disk in the player.

“This is the man you’re protecting,” Quin growls, collecting a remote and mashing the play button with far more force than necessary. He turns the volume up, loud enough that Anakin winces at the trill of the camera starting its recording. The screen lights up with the image of an interrogation room, much like the he sits in now.

“ _Do you know why you’re here today, Professor Kenobi?_ ” The Quinlan Vos on the television says. Anakin can’t make out his expression, the camera positioned over his shoulder to point at the man on the other side of the table. That works perfectly fine for Anakin, who isn’t particularly interested in Quinlan Vos anyways. Instead, his eyes are fixed avidly on the other figure.

The Obi-Wan on screen is not the one Anakin is familiar with—or at least, not the one he’s come to adore over the last year or so, with his hair in a constant state of disarray and the lazy curl of lips he saves only for Anakin himself.  The Obi-Wan on the screen is Professor Kenobi, suave and sure, wearing a confident little smirk—like he’s in on a secret the rest of the world is ignorant to. It’s a look that even now makes Anakin want to get on his knees and follow whatever commands come spilling from his lips. Being cuffed to table in an interrogation room however, the man himself gone with the wind for now, makes that rather difficult.

“Let me know if you change your mind about talking,” the Quinlan in the room with him says, setting the remote down on the table within Anakin’s reach and leaving the room once again. Anakin doesn’t look away even to watch him go.

“ _I’m afraid I don’t,”_ Obi-Wan says, sounding genuinely confused and slightly offended. He’s always been a magnificent actor. _“Your men didn’t bother to explain anything before they marched me through campus and stuffed me in the back of a police car. That was, of course, two days ago. I’ve been sitting in a holding cell since then. I didn’t even get a phone call.”_

_"Right. We're very sorry about that; there was a mix-up in your paperwork."_

_"I'm sure,"_ Kenobi says dryly.

On-Screen Quinlan rustles through the file he has laid out on the table, making a great show of it before he finally plucks a picture from the stack of papers and sets it down in front of Obi-Wan. _“Do you know this man, Professor Kenobi?”_

Anakin recognizes its subject immediately, as does Obi-Wan. Anyone less familiar with the man wouldn’t have noticed the jump of his jaw or the slight flaring of his nostrils, but Anakin survived the last year of his life due to his skill at reading Kenobi’s moods. He misses very little, these days.

Obi-Wan picks up the photograph, holding it carefully in his hands and making an equally grand show of scrutinizing it. Quinlan drums his fingers on the tabletop impatiently. _“If I recall correctly, this is Rako Hardeen, one of my students at the university. I’m afraid I can’t tell you much more than that; the semester’s only just begun, and we’ve only had a few classes together.”_

_“His body was found down on the strip early this morning.”_

_“And you suspect foul play?”_ Obi-Wan asks with a quirked brow. _“I’m afraid I don’t understand what that has to do with me.”_

 _“Considering he was strung up like a neon sign? Yeah, we’re thinking foul play.”_ Vos snatches the photo from Obi-Wan’s hands, stuffing it back into the file. _“As for what it has to do with you, you’re the last person we know that saw him alive. We have security footage of you driving him back to his apartment from the Outlander the day he went missing.”_

_“If you have footage of me dropping him off, then you have footage of me leaving without him, detective.”_

_“Somebody cut the camera feed at his apartment complex shortly after you left. We suspect Hardeen was taken from his apartment by that person.”_

_“Again, I don’t see what that has to do with me.”_

_“You didn’t see anything suspicious? Anyone lingering around the building, maybe?”_

Kenobi pauses, putting on a contemplative face. _“…No. No, I don’t believe so. I’m sorry I couldn’t be more help.”_

Quinlan’s hands clench and unclench. Anakin’s done enough interrogations with the man to know that he’s getting frustrated. He’d obviously hoped to break Obi-Wan by running straight at him, and had severely underestimated the man’s ability to remain cool under pressure.

He flips open the file again, paging through it until he finds another document. _“You know, Professor, I noticed that you don’t have a permanent residence filed with the university.”_

 _“I’m between places at the moment. I have a PO Box for my mail until then,”_ Obi-Wan offers.

_“What made you move out of your old place, if you don’t mind me asking?”_

Obi-Wan grimaces, an expression Anakin can tell is quite sincere. The dealings that led up to Kenobi and Anakin’s departure still make him agitated. “ _Too many memories.”_

 _“Memories. Right,”_ Vos says, slowly pulling another photograph from the file and laying it before Kenobi on the tabletop. _“Memories of this man, perhaps?”_

Anakin startles in his seat at the picture: a photograph of himself. The television’s quality isn’t great, the CPD is on a strict budget, but he recognizes that this a photo not of Detective Skywalker, but of Anakin. The Anakin who lives with Obi-Wan Kenobi. Reaching for the remote, he hits the pause button so that he can better inspect the photograph.

In the picture, he’s splayed out on the comforter of their bed, shirt off and baring the dark bruising Obi-Wan is so fond of marking him with despite that there is no one else to see it. Photo Anakin is asleep, lax and content, Threepio curled up into his side as they doze in the soft glow of afternoon light. He doesn’t know when Kenobi took this picture, but it doesn’t surprise him that he did. Obi-Wan has always had a gift for manipulation.

Real, Arrested Anakin restarts the footage, watching Video Obi-Wan battle with the desire to touch the photograph Vos has laid out before him. He doesn’t, knowing better than to openly display too much emotion, but Anakin knows Vos catches the way the man’s fingers twitch on the tabletop with his wish to reach out. For all his faults, Quinlan is highly perceptive when it comes to reading people. Anakin is not entirely surprised that he’d singled Obi-Wan out despite the scarcity of evidence connecting him to Hardeen’s body turning up.

Obi-Wan sighs. _“Detective Skywalker, yes. We were neighbors before he… disappeared…”_

_“When was the last time you spoke with him?”_

_“The night of his last press conference, I suppose. He asked me to have drinks with him in thanks for watching Threepio earlier in the week when Anakin had to leave early. You know how he is about routine…”_

_“Yeah, I do,”_ Quin huffs. _“And that was the last time you spoke with Skywalker? What happened? He didn’t disappear until almost a week later.”_

Kenobi coughs awkwardly, his face lighting up with a pink flush. He still gets flustered discussing that night, even with Anakin; he hasn’t meant to lose control the way he had. _“While we were drinking, I may have had one too many and made a… romantic advance… on Anakin. He informed me that he didn’t reciprocate my feelings and left. We didn’t speak after that.”_

_“Which is why you didn’t report him missing?”_

_“I wanted to give Anakin his space,”_ Obi-Wan says with a shrug. _“I assumed when I stopped seeing him in passing that he’d moved out.”_

_“You have no idea where he is now, then?”_

_“Like I said, I assumed he’d moved out. I only became aware something was amiss when it was announced on the news that he was missing.”_

_“Right,”_ Quin drawls, reaching out to tap at the photo with one finger. _“You see, we found this photograph at a crime scene a few weeks ago, inside a greeting card. Something about ‘wish you were here’…”_

Obi-Wan’s mouth twitches in an aborted smirk. _“It sounds like someone is trying to mess with your head, Detective Vos.”_

Quin’s shoulders are a tense line, a stark contrast to Kenobi’s lax posture. He knows Obi-Wan is messing with him. He suspects Obi-Wan even then, and is growing increasingly upset that his attempts to trip Kenobi up are failing. _“Yeah, yeah it does.”_

Only then does Obi-Wan reach out, picking the photograph up off the table and inspecting it with a theatrically critical eye. _“I don’t know how much help I can be when it comes to that, Detective, but if you ask me, I’d say Anakin looks quite happy to be wherever it is he’s gone.”_

 _“Is that so?”_ Vos growls.

 _“Of course,”_ Obi-Wan replies, mockery evident in his voice. _“He often spoke of the stresses of police work, but here he looks to be doing quite well. There are no bags under his eyes, and his ribs aren’t quite so prominent. That is, of course, not to mention that’s he’s very clearly involved with someone. I’d say time away is serving him we—”_

 _“You son of a bitch!”_ Quin snarls, evidently fed up with Kenobi’s smugness, and lunges across the table. Anakin winces at the violence that follows—at Obi-Wan cowering and taking a beating he could have very well avoided in another circumstance. Not here, though, when he has to play the innocent professor. Here, he lets Quin drag him from his chair and throw him to the ground, flailing with all the grace of a desk jockey under the detective’s assault.

The door to the interrogation room slams open, admitting Secura, Windu, and a handful of other officers. They grab hold of Quin, dragging him off a cowering Kenobi and wrestle him out into the hall. He hisses and spits the whole way out, shouting accusations and abuse at Obi-Wan as he goes. Vos alone sees through the man’s mask of pleasantness.

Only when the door closes behind them does Kenobi get up off the floor, wiping blood from his nose and prodding carefully at his split lower lip. He settles back in the chair, unable to go anywhere until someone returns to let him out, then offers the camera devastatingly smug smile and wink.

As far as strategies go to keep the cops off his back, Obi-Wan has selected one that’s going to prove effective. Quin may know Kenobi’s secret, but he won’t have any evidence to support his claim beyond his own intuition. It won’t be good enough for any other officer on the force, and now that he’s assaulted Obi-Wan without any kind of due cause, he won’t be able to get anywhere near the other man without risking a lawsuit. The department won’t take that kind of risk; Vos will be riding a desk for the foreseeable future, and Obi-Wan will get away clean.

He’ll go back to Anakin, battered and bruised, and be met with open arms by the very man Quinlan is trying to rescue.

* * *

 

The video of Obi-Wan’s questioning has long since come to an end when the door Anakin’s own interrogation room flies open, admitting a flurry of fabric and fabulously styled hair.

“Hey, you can’t go in there” Quin snaps, chasing the newcomer through the door.

The man pays him no heed, striding confidently across the room to stand at Anakin’s shoulder. Anakin feels his gaze like a physical weight, looking him over, assessing, before a hand settles over the back of his neck in a gesture that is both reassuring and unsettling; he always hated how well this man could read him.

“You can’t just barge in on an interrogation!”

“I most certainly can,” the man retorts, setting the briefcase in his other hand down on the table and fishing a business card from his pocket with the now-freed hand. “My name is Bail Organa. I’m Mister Skywalker’s lawyer, and this so-called interrogation is over.”

Vos’ lip curls in rage, “Anakin didn’t request a lawyer before his questioning began. You have no right to be here.”

“ _Anakin_ just spent the last twelve months in the custody of a criminal known for his controlling and manipulative behavior. He is nowhere close to being capable of caring for himself after so long under that man’s influence.”

“Detective Skywalker willingly offered information—”

“There is nothing willing about this situation! You took him from an environment with a clear power structure and used his need to find balance in a new environment to coerce information from him. You’re damn lucky I’m not drawing you up on charges, Vos.”

There’s something rather infuriating about being argued over when he’s sitting right there, capable of voicing his own opinion on the matter. As soon as he does, however, Bail’s grip on the back of his neck tightens to the point Anakin can’t ignore it. His mouth snaps closed, shoulders hunching in deference to Bail’s unspoken demand. A quick glance up at the man reveals him to be quite unhappy with having to go this route, but he’s not going to let Anakin ruin his only chance at a defense.

“Now, if you don’t mind,” Organa growls, “I’d like to speak to my client. Privately.”

Quin has to visibly choke down whatever sharp retort he’d wanted to throw. “Of course, Mr. Organa.”

“And release him, please. We aren’t barbarians; those cuffs can’t be good for his wrists.”

“Skywalker is a danger to himself and others,” Vos informs him coolly. “Have me take the cuffs off, and the CPD won’t be held responsible for anything he does to you.”

Bail offers him a bland smile, gaze flickering briefly to the bandages around Anakin’s wrists. While Quin has his own share of wounds, Anakin has very clearly done more damage to himself than anyone else since his arrival at the station. “I think I’ll take my chances, Detective Vos.” The man scowls, but cedes to Organa’s request before he slips out the door. Only when they’re alone does Bail release his grip on Anakin, smoothing down his shoulders before stepping away to take the chair opposite of Anakin. “I’m terribly sorry about that, Ani; I couldn’t have you ruining my hard work before I could even begin.”

“You’re not even my lawyer,” the younger man grouses. “You’re my ex-wife’s lawyer.”

“Do you have someone else you’d like me to call?” Organa asks, quirking a brow.

Anakin huffs unhappily, crossing his arms on the table and slumping down to rest his chin on them. “No…”

Bail grins fondly at Anakin’s petulant behavior. “Precisely. Now, we have much to discuss.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More art for this fic!  
> Inheavenlygrass back with [ CH 14 Ani & Threepio ](http://inheavenlygrass.tumblr.com/post/156335710117) as well as [ CH 17 Obi-Wan ](http://inheavenlygrass.tumblr.com/post/156330918117)  
> [Lilyconrad](http://archiveofourown.org/users/lilyconrad/pseuds/lilyconrad) also drew a [ Professor Kenobi ](http://writegowrite.tumblr.com/post/156493187694)  
> There's also a lovely drawing of the [ CH 17 BJ Scene ](http://jedi-obibunny-kenobi.tumblr.com/post/156245304272) by jedi-obibunny-kenobi!
> 
> Thank you all so much for making these wonderful pieces!


	20. Twenty

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a pretty rough chapter, content-wise. All hurt, no comfort.

**Past**

Everyone makes mistakes; this is simply a fact of life. After all, no one is perfect. If they were, how would they grow? Sometimes those mistakes are as small as knocking a favored mug off a desk or dialing the wrong number. Simple, fleeting, inconsequential in the grand scheme of things. You can always sweep up the broken glass, always hang up the phone. Sometimes, however, those mistakes aren’t quite so easily corrected, like a driver missing a light turning or a surgeon leaving his implements inside a patient during a procedure.

Sometimes even the most level-headed of people get angry, and the decisions angry people make tend to fall in the latter category.

In the end, Obi-Wan is required to return to Coruscant twice a week to teach in a physical classroom. One of the other professors left the university shortly before the semester began, forcing the rest of the department to pick up their slack. While he confesses to being luckier than most, who have taken on two or more classes, he still grumbles about it when he leaves before dawn on those mornings. He grumbles about it when he returns, too, though exhaustion usually puts him out before Anakin has to hear too much about it.

The only nights this is not the case are those when Obi-Wan returns with another victim. Their copycat seems to have picked up on their game, responding in kind to the bodies Kenobi leaves behind. While driving all the way to Coruscant to teach class twice a week is an inconvenience, it does make collecting new victims far easier for the man. It’s much less suspicious for him to be hanging around town when he has a legitimate excuse to be there, after all.

When Anakin hears the car door slam out in the driveway one night, a few weeks into this game with the copycat, he isn’t particularly concerned about the late hour. He knows what to expect when he walk out of the house, but what he expects isn’t what he finds.

There’s usually a struggle when it comes to getting Kenobi’s newest playmates from the car to the house. Anakin himself had put up quite a fight, but whomever the man has brought back this time doesn’t seem to be putting up very much of one, if any at all. What’s even more unusual is how rough Kenobi is being despite this, reaching into the backseat and physically dragging his unwilling passenger out by his shirt with a sharp snarl of, “Get out of the car.”

The man, probably only a few years younger than Anakin, flails with the discoordination of the heavily drugged as he’d yanked from the vehicle. Obi-Wan makes no move to slow his fall when his foot hooks on something inside the car and he falls on his face into the gravel.

Anakin has learned a thing or two about reading Kenobi’s body language since he arrived at the cabin. In fact, he would go as far as to say he’s something of an expert on the matter, and what he sees in the line of Obi-Wan’s shoulders and subtle sneer to his lips makes him pause at the top of the stairs and reconsider approaching. Something about this latest victim has made Kenobi angry. Not angry in the way he always seemed to be with the victims he’d killed during his cycles, as though he were venting his frustrations over the losses in his past onto the men and women he killed, but something else. Even in those moments, there was always a part of him that knew that these people were nothing more than crude effigies of the people he wished were under his knife. No, this is something new and deeply personal, and Anakin doesn’t understand it. Even the dogs shy away, keeping wide distance between themselves and Obi-Wan despite their curiosity about the newcomer.

Kenobi watches as the man sluggishly struggles to disentangle himself from whatever his leg is hooked on, making no move to help him. In fact, the only thing Obi-Wan does to aid the man in his predicament is step forward, delivering a swift kick to his gut. It does dislodge him, sending him sprawling fully into the gravel, where he curls around his stomach.

“Come on, Hardeen, get up,” Kenobi hisses, grabbing the man by the back of his shirt and hauling him to his feet. His victim is nearly limp, still heavily under the influence of whatever Obi-Wan had given him, which is another thing Anakin finds odd. For the most part, the men and women Kenobi’s brought back have been almost—if not completely—out of the grip of the sedatives Obi-Wan prefers by the time he finally gets them back to the cabin. This is, after all, why there’s usually more of a struggle than this.

Anakin doesn’t realize that he’s been edging slowly closer until he lays a hand on Obi-Wan’s arm, startling the man into dropping his charge. This uncharacteristic obliviousness to his surroundings, combined with his previous behavior and the way his victim doesn’t even try to break his fall, sets Anakin’s teeth on edge. There is definitely something wrong here, and he’s not entirely sure that he wants to find out what.

“Oh!” Obi-Wan says, twitching beneath Anakin’s palm. “Anakin. I’m sorry, I didn’t hear you coming.”

“I should have announced myself,” Anakin replies, stroking soothingly down the man’s arm.

“It’s fine.” Obi-Wan leans in, an attempt to kiss him, and Anakin finds himself pulling out of reach. He has to smother the pang he feels when a wounded expression flickers across Kenobi’s face, crossing his arms over his chest in his insecurity. “What’s wrong, dear one?”

He means to navigate this conversation with at least a small amount of tact, but the words tumble from his lips quickly, undoubtedly hinting at his growing distress. “Obi-Wan, what’s going on?”

“I’m quite certain you know what’s going on here, Anakin,” Kenobi replies, lightly chiding. He doesn’t like it when Anakin is anything less than cognizant of everything going on under their roof.

“I mean, you just had someone here two days ago. The copycat hasn’t replied yet. Why—why is he here? Who is he?”

Obi-Wan turns the man over onto his back with a nudge of his foot, rubbing the toe of his shoe in the gravel afterwards as though he’s just stepped in something foul. “Anakin, this is Rako Hardeen.” Another anomaly in the pattern. Kenobi is always careful to select victims he has no known ties to. They’re taken at random, as the opportunity arises. Most of the time, neither know anything about their victim beyond the misdeed that landed them in Kenobi’s clutches. But Obi-Wan knows this man’s name. This isn’t just another petty criminal snatched off the streets for theft or dealing or the half-dozen other crimes committed by the men and women he’s brought to the cabin in the weeks since this game of chess with their copycat began. “He _was_ one of my students at the University.”

Anakin feels his blood run cold at the admission, delivered without so much as a hint of remorse. Kenobi shifts his weight, as though he intends to strike out at the man on the ground again, and Anakin finds himself stepping between them. He can’t believe this. All those years flying under the department’s radar, all these months together in this cramped little cabin, and Obi-Wan has gone and ruined it all. Blinded by something Anakin doesn’t understand, the man doesn’t even seem to realize what he’s done. “Obi-Wan, what the hell!?” He snaps, fear coiling his gut at not only the prospects for their future, but also his current position. While he hasn’t tried it before, he is under no delusion that between Kenobi and his victim is a safe place to be. “What were you thinking?”

“What is the problem?” the man replies, bewildered. Anakin knows that he isn’t this stupid; he’s being purposefully obtuse.

“You took a student from your campus! If his body turns up, you’ll be the first person they suspect! There is rarely such thing as coincidence, Obi-Wan! Not to a good detective—which Quinlan is.”

“He deserves it!” Kenobi returns, puffing up in response to Anakin’s challenge. He still doesn’t quite match Anakin in height, but the younger man finds himself stepping back nonetheless. “I’ve seen his academic file. He’s on probation, following an assault charge by a female student. She claimed he put something in his drink, that he _used_ her, but for some reason she dropped the charges. I wonder why that could have been.”

Anakin is helpless but to allow Obi-Wan to push his way past him, the sharp look in his eyes rendering him compliant as the man continues on with his story. “He should have been expelled then and there, but of course the school wouldn’t take action. _No._ ” He drags the man upright by the front of his shirt, Hardeen swaying unsteadily under the effects of whatever it is in his system and only staying on his feet due to Obi-Wan’s grip on him. Anakin has a suspicion of just what that drug may be, but he’s not keen to interrupt Kenobi’s rant. “So imagine my surprise when I spot Mister Hardeen here at the Outlander earlier, chatting up another lovely little brunette. She didn’t see what he slipped in her drink, but _I_ did.” Kenobi smiles at Hardeen then—a baring of teeth that sends a shiver down Anakin’s spine. He’s been distinctly wrong-footed by Kenobi’s behavior all night, but he doesn’t need to guess what that smile means. “Not quite so fun when you’re on the receiving end, is it?”

Hardeen makes a slurred noise, which could have been some kind of response if not for the Rohypnol coursing through his veins. Kenobi then begins to drag the man back to the cabin, Anakin and the dogs hesitantly trailing along behind. He isn’t sure exactly what to do, but he does know that he can’t let Obi-Wan kill Hardeen tonight. He undoubtedly wants to. Anakin can tell. It would be a stupid, reckless decision that could put the both of them at risk. He needs to get Kenobi to calm down and think about this.

“Obi-Wan, Obi-Wan, stop!” He calls, finding his voice at last as he races up the front steps to catch up with the man. Kenobi is undeterred, as he usually is when he sets his mind to something. Anakin is pig-headed, but there are days when Obi-Wan far outshines him. “Obi-Wan!”

Jogging into the house, he grabs hold of Kenobi’s arm once again. He’s almost immediately shrugged off as the man continues to storm down the hallway, making for the basement door. Anakin knows that if he gets that far, he won’t be able to stop this. Not once has he ever been down in the basement. Obi-Wan expressly forbade it. If Kenobi gets that door open, gets past it, Anakin’s legs will sieze up at the top stair and he’ll be able to do nothing but watch and yell and know that nothing he says is going to get through until it’s far too late to correct this.

So he lunges for Kenobi, catching him off guard and knocking him away from Hardeen. Rako hits the ground with a soft _oof_ when his support is ripped out from under him, but Anakin doesn’t particularly care about that. The dogs are barking in distress and his heart is thundering in his ribs and all of the rage boiling beneath Obi-Wan’s skin abruptly finds a new target.

Anakin yelps when the blow lands, stumbling into the wall from the force. It knocks the breath from his lungs and leaves his head reeling. He would be unsurprised when his knees give out if he could focus on anything beyond the pain radiating from his cheekbone and his eye.

He knew getting between Obi-Wan and his victim would be dangerous, but he hadn’t actually considered this among the potential outcomes.

The dogs are still barking from somewhere nearby, and Hardeen is moaning from where he’s lying on the floor, but when Anakin finally calms enough to crack open his eyes, his gaze doesn’t waver from Kenobi.

Obi-Wan is standing above him, all traces of aggression abruptly wiped away. He gapes at Anakin, the same stunned disbelief Anakin is feeling slowly morphing to horror when he shifts his gaze to his shaking hands. He’d hurt Anakin. For the first time in their relationship, Obi-Wan had turned on him with the intention to cause harm. It wasn’t something he’d thought about, a reaction to a confrontation they’d both lost control of, but what matters is that it was done. It seems Kenobi is struggling to come to grips with that as much as Anakin is.

“Ani—” he croaks, but seems to lose his words after that. His jaw works uselessly, as though he wants to speak, but can’t quite think of anything to say. Anakin can’t, either; he feels like an idiot. For all his knowledge of just how much blood is staining those hands, he genuinely hadn’t thought Kenobi capable of hurting him. Not like this. He’d somehow managed to forget just how dangerous Obi-Wan Kenobi is.

Hardeen groans again, accompanied by the sounds of a vague struggle. The effects of the drugs are finally starting to wear off enough to allow his first real attempts at figuring out what is going on.

Kenobi’s gaze swings between Anakin and Hardeen, Hardeen and Anakin, and he lets out a wounded, frustrated noise. “Just—just stay there,” he pleads, finally turning away in full to deal with Hardeen. Anakin is currently struggling to catch his breath; he wouldn’t be able to get far if he tried.

The basement door is bypassed in favor of dragging the other man up the stairs. Anakin thinks he hears one of the bedroom doors slam, but he’s still too dazed to know for certain. What he does know is that when he finally looks up from his intense scrutiny of the patterns in the hardwood floor, Obi-Wan is back and kneeling before him. Shame and remorse are written across the man’s face, his eyes wet with tears, but Anakin still flinches when Kenobi reaches for him.

Obi-Wan, too, flinches away. Truly hesitant and unsure for possibly the first time since Anakin met him, his hands hover in the space between them. One is empty, the other holding what appears to be a slightly damp dishtowel. Anakin would guess it’s filled with ice, and the promise of relief is alluring enough that he forces himself to hold still when Kenobi tries again.

He cups Anakin’s uninjured cheek. “I’m so sorry, dear one,” he murmurs, pressing the makeshift icepack to Anakin’s face with the utmost care. “I didn’t mean—I wouldn’t—”

Words, explanations, fail Kenobi, and he falls into a mantra of “ _I’m sorry”_ , repeating the phrase as though they’re magic words that will make everything alright. They aren’t, but it goes on long enough that Anakin’s breathing and heartrate finally calm and water from the melted ice is seeping through the rag.

Brushing the icepack away, Anakin tenses in preparation of hauling himself to his feet. Despite the fact that he’s calmed from the blind panic he’d been in earlier, he’s still not fully prepared to deal with Obi-Wan and rips his arm from the man’s grip when he tries to help. After that, he doesn’t try to touch Anakin. Not when he’s stumbling down the hallway or struggling up the stairs. Instead he hovers just a step behind, prepared to offer aid should it become necessary. It isn’t.

One of the other bedroom doors has been barricaded shut, indicating what was done with Hardeen. Obi-Wan will be hesitant to let Anakin out of his sight for the rest of the evening, let alone willing to wander off and kill the man. In a sick way, Anakin thinks, mission accomplished.

Obi-Wan doesn’t try to stop him when he drags the linens off the bed, nor when he finds his way into the closet. Anakin curls up against the closed door, and he can hear the rustling of fabric when Kenobi situates himself on the other side.

“I’m sorry,” he hears again, one last time, before Kenobi’s voice breaks. Anakin isn’t entirely sure how long he stays up, listening to the man’s muffled sobs through the door.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah. There was supposed to be an additional scene, but this seemed like it was heavy enough for now. It'll be included in the next chapter.
> 
> A few more art pieces!  
> BigWolfPup made a gorgeous book cover for the fic! (There was supposed to be a link here it's broken i'll fix it later)
> 
> Also, InHeavenlyGrass drew [ the boys cuddling](http://inheavenlygrass.tumblr.com/post/156684713077/gooey-soft-sort-of-schmoopy-sketch-its) if you're looking for some good warm feels to counter this chapter.


	21. Twenty-One

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anakin's day out.

Anakin doesn’t know just what time Obi-Wan fell asleep, nor whether it was a choice or if exhaustion had dragged him under. When he slips out of the closet in the morning, though, the man is still asleep on the floor. Kenobi looks as worse for wear as Anakin feels. His cheeks are still red and puffy from crying, and deep bags hang beneath his eyes. It seems he hadn’t even managed to change out of the clothes he’d worn the previous evening, which are rumpled now due to the mistreatment. Threepio and Artoo are curled up on the stripped bed, raising their heads when they notice his presence and greeting him with wagging tails that thump against the mattress. A part of him worries the noise will disturb Kenobi’s sleep; the rest of him doesn’t particularly care.

The dogs don’t follow him when he steps from the room, no clear destination in mind. Instead he finds himself wandering, trailing his hands over the surfaces of the house. These are old sensations, but at the same time they are new.

The wood of the banisters as he goes down the stairs is loose from years of children’s abuse, where Obi-Wan and his siblings had hung from and pulled at the railing with small hands. Cliegg had used to chide him for doing the same on the railings in their home when the idea of a second floor was still a novelty, but Anakin thinks that Qui-Gon Jinn likely never gave his children the same warnings. From what Obi-Wan has said of him, he doesn’t seem like the type. He hadn’t even gone back and tried to tighten the screws again.

In the living room, early morning light is just starting to stream in from the windows. While Anakin is surprised to find himself awake this early considering the events of the evening, he is grateful for the time alone. There’s a chill in the air that wasn’t as prevalent upstairs, and the vents groan with the strain of trying to heat the lower floor. It occurs to Anakin that they’d never closed the front door after their altercation. It’s no wonder the dogs hadn’t seemed keen to get up; they’d likely already let themselves out. At least the weather is still cold enough to keep most of the insect population at bay, lest they find their home infested with any number of unpleasant creepy-crawlers. He is unsure who, in this relationship, would be the one standing on the chair and who would be the one returning the critter to its place outdoors. It would depend on the insect, Anakin supposes.

The kitchen cabinets are all but bare when Anakin rifles through them. The sound of them slamming in his increasingly frustrated attempts to search for something edible finally draws the dogs from their lounging. While Anakin isn’t particularly hungry, seeking food more out of a desire to keep busy than any real inclination to eat, the dogs hover at his feet in anticipation of their morning meal. Anakin scowls down at them; he’d used the last of the dog food for their dinner. It had been Obi-Wan’s intention to shop before his return to the cabin, but the Hardeen incident had clearly derailed that. Artoo’s drooling all over himself; Anakin feels terrible. He did find peanut butter and bread during his raid on the cabinets, however, so he makes the three of them sandwiches as he thinks.

He doesn’t want to stay in the house. He needs air—time away from Kenobi and everything that happened over the course of last night—and a selfish, vindictive part of him wants to make Obi-Wan hurt. Glancing down at the dogs with a growing determination, a plan begins to formulate in his head.

Obi-Wan is still asleep when Anakin returns to the bedroom, oblivious to the commotion of the dogs as they follow their owner and the plate of sandwiches he carries. Anakin sets them on the desk for the moment before moving to kneel beside the older man. The necklace on which Kenobi keeps his keys has slipped out from the confines of his shirt during the night, and it’s surprisingly easy to unclasp the thing and carefully set that, too, on the desk.

Afterwards, he steps into the closet to locate a set of clothes that could feasibly fit. Everything Kenobi owns is a bit too small, but there are a few garments that are close enough to Anakin’s size that he can wiggle into them without looking too ridiculous. Old jeans, a plaid top, and one of his regular undershirts make up the ensemble, and he snags a pair of Obi-Wan’s boots on his way back out to complete the look.

Dressed in real clothes for the first time in months, keys and sandwiches and shoes in hand, Anakin feels like he could conquer the world. He leads the dogs down the stairs and out the still-ajar front door, stopping only briefly to put the boots on. The dogs are ushered into the backseat and given their respective sandwich to aid in keeping them quiet over the course of the journey; Anakin’s own is held between his teeth as he plucks Kenobi’s wallet from the cup holder. It had been forgotten in the chaos of last night, much to Anakin’s fortune. He fishes the cash from within, a couple hundred bucks in assorted bills, and stuffs it into his pockets.

The rumble of the engine, the crunch of gravel beneath tires, the soft chatter of a morning talk show on the radio. Something uncurls in Anakin’s chest the further away from the cabin they get, and he finds himself tensing his knuckles around the steering wheel just to be sure this isn’t a dream. He doesn’t think he could make up the elation he feels, however, nor the cloying combination of peanut butter and dog breath that swiftly forces him to roll down the window. Not that he minds, of course. The bite of the morning chill and the sensation of wind blowing in are just another welcome layer to the moment.

Anakin has no idea where he’s going. Is there a destination in mind? Yes: somewhere he can get a decent meal for himself and his dogs. Does he have any fucking clue how to get somewhere like that? Absolutely not. At the moment, however, there isn’t too much to worry about. The only way to go is down until he gets out of the mountains, and he can probably navigate whatever roads he finds afterwards well enough to find his way back at the end of this little excursion.

The woods are far lovelier on the journey down the mountain than they were on his way up.

* * *

The first place Anakin comes across is, actually, a cafe. It’s obviously a local joint, with a small front porch and the kind of kitschy decorations out front that one might expect from a shop most likely run by somebody’s grandparents. The place is busy despite the early hour, but the majority of the crowd seems to have taken shelter from the cold inside the building. There are only a few people on the porch, bundled up warmer than their counterparts indoors and sipping hot drinks while they read the paper or page through books. A delicious smell is drifting in the window, and the dogs perk up in the backseat.

Unfortunately, when he glances into the back before pulling into the lot, Anakin realizes that his little pack is nowhere near prepared to make a public appearance. While Threepio has a collar—a worn band of nylon that he’d been wearing when Obi-Wan took him—it is the only piece of equipment between them. There hadn’t been any reason to purchase new collars and leashes, as the dogs rarely left their owner’s line of sight. Anakin knows his animals to be very well trained, but he understands he can’t try and take them in without the proper attire.

Sighing, he keeps driving past the café. Leashes first, then breakfast.

The sleepy village of Naboo only has one pet store, which a few locals are happy to guide him to when he pulls over to ask for directions. Unlike the megamarts of Coruscant, the building is little more than an addition slapped onto the side of the vet’s office. There are a couple of rickety shopping carts in a return out front, and Anakin places the dogs inside the basket of one to keep them from wandering off in the store.

A small bell chimes when he pushes the cart through the door, alerting whoever might be working to their entry. While there’s no one at the checkout counter, Anakin hears a shout of “Welcome to Eerin’s pet supply!” from the somewhere near the back.

Tightly packed shelves and precariously stacked crates fill the small shop, carrying an impressive stock of goods. Anakin follows the signs indicating the aisle for dog food, watching as Threepio and Artoo sniff curiously at anything and everything that’s close enough to the cart for them to reach. Artoo has to stand up on his hind legs just to see out, wobbling precariously every time Anakin has to make a turn. He is undeterred by the challenge, however, and Anakin often has to pause and return the assorted toys he snags from the shelves as they walk. A squeaky toy in the shape of a robot finally breaks his resolve, which Artoo enthusiastically chews on for the rest of the trip to the food section. The pitched, squealing noise the toy makes every time he bites down is going to drive Obi-Wan up the wall, Anakin can help but think.

The source of the voice from earlier reveals herself while Anakin is stuffing a bag of dog food on the rack under the cart so that the dogs won’t get into it. She’s a middle-aged woman, with watery, round eyes that are vaguely reminiscent of a fish and pink hair that’s been pulled back into a loose ponytail. “Can I help you find anything?” she asks, eyes wandering between him and the dogs in the buggy. They light up with recognition at the sight of Artoo, and a delighted gasp slips from her, accompanied by the exclamation of, “Ah! Is that my Artooie? And who is this handsome gentleman?”

The little dog’s ears prick up at the mention of his name, briefly abandoning his toy in search of its source. His tail wags excitedly when he catches sight of the woman, shoving an unhappy Threepio out of the way to reach the edge of the basket she’s closest to. They must have met when Kenobi brought the dog in for his vet appointments. “Uh, yeah. That’s Artoo, and the other one is Threepio.”

The woman scratches the top of Artoo’s head indulgently, Threepio leaning over to sniff her hand with his usual suspicion of strangers. “Are you watching him for Mr. Kenobi?”

There’s really no safe way to answer that question. Unfortunately Anakin’s already made his grave; now he has to lie in it. “Yes and no,” he says, horribly awkward, and feels his face flushing. “I’m Anakin… uh… Lars. Anakin Lars. I’m Obi-Wan’s boyfriend.”

“Oh!” The woman says, appearing genuinely surprised. She offers a hand, which Anakin cautiously takes. “Obi-Wan didn’t mention you the last time he came in. I’m Bant Eerin, Naboo’s veterinarian. Obi-Wan and I basically grew up together.”

“It’s nice to meet you.”

“You as well,” Bant replies. “What brings you into town today?”

“Just ran out of dog food this morning,” Anakin says, toeing at the bag, “and I’m trying to find new collars and leashes for these two. Threepio’s is looking worse for wear. Don’t suppose you could help me out?”

“It would be my pleasure.”

Bant leads him to the wall at the back of the store, where an array of collars and leads have been hung for customers to peruse through. Bant walks him through sizing a collar for Artoo, then gives him the pros and cons of the different materials he can choose from. While the basic nylon of Threepio’s old collar has served him well enough in the past, Obi-Wan’s cash is burning a hole in his pocket and he’s tempted to go with a nicer material.

Leather is always an excellent choice, the shop’s collars all hand-made by a local craftsman and dyed a variety of colors. All the ones on display are very basic, but Bant informs him that they can be customized if he wants to wait a few days. He doesn’t have the patience for that right now, but files the information away for later consideration.

There are a few metal collars as well, each a chain crafted from interlocking metal loops. These Anakin is intimately familiar with, and can’t resist the urge to reach out and touch one made of finer rings. The metal is cool under his fingers, bringing back a rush of memories that threaten to swallow him up. He has to shake his head to clear them, tuning back in to Bant’s explanation of how she doesn’t recommend the metal collar for dogs with longer fur—such as Theepio—as there is a risk of it catching in the chain.

In the end, he selects two of the leather collars and a pair of black, nylon leads. Bant rings him up at the front counter, handing Threepio and Artoo treats during the process, and also marks him down for an order of custom tags that Obi-Wan can pick up the next time he’s in town. Anakin’s forks over Kenobi’s money with a vague sense of vindication. He can’t get back at Obi-Wan physically for the black eye that Bant has very carefully avoided asking about, but he knows Obi-Wan is a bit anal about unnecessary spending. He can, at least, ruin the man’s budget for the month.

* * *

 

It’s only when Anakin’s gotten back to the café he saw on the way in, _Tii’s Teahouse_ , that he realizes he completely forgot about Rako Hardeen. Considering he’s the reason Obi-Wan struck him, and consequently the reason Anakin is having this little outing, it’s a bit embarrassing.

Really, Anakin can only imagine the atmosphere up in the cabin right now. It’s late morning, heading into early afternoon, and Obi-Wan has undoubtedly woken by now. Woken to find Anakin, the dogs, and his car missing after the affair of last night. The panic he must be feeling fills Anakin with a grim satisfaction that cuts through even the vague guilt he experiences at undoubtedly turning the full spectrum of Kenobi’s rage on Hardeen.

Obi-Wan had been mad enough at the man last night that he’d struck Anakin. If Kenobi blames Hardeen for his flight, and he undoubtedly does, things do not bode well for the poor man. As hard as it is to come to grips with it even now, Obi-Wan has a mean streak that can turn on even those he holds most dear. His victims don’t usually suffer, but Anakin has a feeling that Hardeen is not going to be given that mercy.

Sighing, Anakin leans back in his chair and watches as the woman who owns the café, Shaak Tii, hobbles out onto the porch to join them. Miss Tii, as she requested he call her, is an elderly woman with dark skin, greying hair, and glasses that make her eyes seem far larger than they are. She is, from what Anakin can infer, a compassionate woman, and the walls of her café are lined with photographs of the many children she fostered in her younger years. She’s warm and genuine in a way that Anakin finds soothing, and he imagines that her personality is as much of a draw to this little place as her food.

The flow of customers has slowed in the off hour, and Miss Tii seems keen on indulging his dogs as much as possible in her free time. She’s brought them a few biscuits, bacon scraps, and now what appears to be cups filled with whipped cream. Threepio and Artoo are as enthusiastic about receiving these gifts as they were about the past treats, tails wagging, and Tii coos delightedly at them as they both sit and wait at Anakin’s command. They’re probably going to be sick on the ride back up the mountain, what with the treats Bant gave them at the pet shop and the sandwiches Anakin fed them on the way down, but he doesn’t have the heart to stop her.

“You have such polite dogs,” Tii informs him, watching Artoo stick his entire muzzle into his cup to get at the cream within.

“Thank you, ma’am.”

“Ma’am! Oh, and a polite young gentleman, too.” She settles down in the chair opposite him, basking in the glow of the sun as it slowly begins to chase away the morning chill. “What did a fine lad like you do to hurt yourself in such a way, hm?” Gesturing to his eye, her warmth seems to dim as she leans over the table, dropping her voice as to not be overheard. “Somebody didn’t do that to you, did they?”

Anakin’s hand flutters up to prod at the bruising, wincing when it—predictably—stings. “No,” he assures her, lying through his teeth. He shouldn’t be, but he is. “No. I, uh, tripped is all. Knocked my head on the coffee table on the way down. I’m kind of a klutz.”

It’s a pitiful excuse, delivered with an even more pitiful attempt at a smile, and Anakin knows Tii isn’t believing a work of it. Her eyes narrow suspiciously behind the rim of her thick glasses, but she cedes to desperation he must be giving off. “Alright, sweetheart,” she soothes, reaching over to cover one of his hands with her own. He hadn’t realized he’s clenched them around his napkin. “I understand. But just know, if you ever need to talk to somebody, Miss Tii’s doors are always open to you.”

“Thank you,” he mumbles, unable to meet her gaze, and Tii gives his hand another pat.

“Let me get you some goodies for the road, sweetie.”

She pushes out of her seat, walking back into the shop and ignoring Anakin’s protests about how he can’t accept that. He does accept the little box of pastries, though, and stuffs the money he tries to offer her back into his pocket at Tii’s stern look. When he’s back in the car, he cracks open the box to find a napkin laid over the top of the pastries witch what he assumes to be Tii’s phone number scribbled on it. He folds that up and slips it into his other pocket, trying to swallow down the shame of knowing he’ll likely never call, and begins the journey back up to the cabin.

* * *

 

There is, Anakin notes as he puts the car in park, a smudge of whipped cream stuck high on Artoo’s muzzle. He’d spent the better part of their journey back to the cabin trying to lick it off, to no avail. Even the dog’s long tongue hadn’t been able to reach it, and Threepio had seemed content to allow his counterpart to continue in his futile quest rather than aiding him in getting the cream off.

The front door to the cabin is still cracked open, and it is no surprise when Obi-Wan comes flying from the home before Anakin even has a chance to get out of the car. He looks even worse than he had when Anakin left, his work clothes now stained with patches of tacky blood in addition to their wrinkles. His chest heaves, and Anakin thinks the knuckles on both his hands may be swollen from whatever he’s gotten into over the last few hours. Poor Mister Hardeen.

Though it is obvious that he’d like nothing more than to hurl himself down the front steps and take Anakin into his arms, Kenobi forces himself to stop on the porch and allow Anakin to come to him. Despite the desperation and disbelief in his eyes as he drags them over Anakin’s form, he seems to understand that there are boundaries he can’t yet cross due to last night’s altercation. Instead he just sways strangely on the porch, continuing to fight the urge to ascertain the younger man’s state for himself.

Anakin doesn’t speak to the man as he leads a small parade into the house. Kenobi follows behind, close enough that Anakin can almost feel his breath on the back of his neck, but far enough away that they don’t touch. Bringing up the rear are Threepio and Artoo, who seem quite delighted to be home after their exciting day away. All of them trail him into the kitchen, where sets down the box of confections Miss Tii had given him. He has to turn around, he knows. He has to confront Obi-Wan about what happened last night, but he finds himself struggling to work up the nerve.

He is, fortunately, spared the first word when Obi-Wan lets out a hoarse, “ _Anakin_.” His hand settles on the younger man’s shoulder, gently turning him around. “You came back,” Kenobi breathes, as though he can’t quite believe it.

Drawing on every bit of strength he can summon, Anakin forces his eyes up from the floor to meet Obi-Wan’s own. “Next time, I won’t.” It’s sharp, undisputable. A declaration and a warning. “If what happens last night happens again, I will leave, and I won’t come back. Obi-Wan, you can’t—I can’t—”

“I know.” The man steps closer, driving Anakin back against the counter when he reflexively steps away. His heart hammers against his ribs and his breath comes faster than he would like, but Anakin has nowhere to go and nothing to do but allow Kenobi to wrap his arms around him anyways. “I know. I’m so sorry. It won’t happen again, dearest.”

He’s distraught, Anakin knows, feeling tears on his skin when Obi-Wan tucks his face into Anakin’ throat. He’s distraught, and Rako Hardeen has suffered the horrible death that Anakin had tried to spare him in the first place.

“I promise it won’t,” Kenobi says in a fervent whisper. “I love you.”

Her name was Siri Tachi, Kenobi tells him that night, under the security of their blankets and in the shelter of the dark. They went to high school together, thick as thieves as they got into the mischief expected of teenagers. One weekend, barely old enough to smoke and too young to drink, they’d snuck into one of local fraternity house’s parties for a reason Obi-Wan can’t quite remember. Perhaps they’d been dared, or just thought it’d be fun. Perhaps they were trying to prove themselves to a world they thought didn’t see them.

They were young, and ignorant, and someone took advantage of that. Siri would never tell him who; she never told anyone but the cops who wrote her claims off as nothing more than the whining of a teenage girl regretting sex. Her grades slipped, she started skipping classes, and then one day she simply didn’t turn up for school.

Anakin curls around Obi-Wan’s back as the man recounts sneaking out of school when she failed to return his texts and his calls Of driving over to her house and of finding her there, cold and unresponsive. An overdose, the ambulance drivers had said; she was dead long before Kenobi had even arrived.

His fury with Hardeen makes sense, then. Anakin can feel Obi-Wan’s hatred for the man boiling under his own skin, and he’s suddenly not as guilty as he had been earlier for what Obi-Wan has done to Rako. He hushes the man, holds his trembling form tight, and they wait for dawn together.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have a specific chapter I want to put out on Valentines. There is one more between this one and that one. Can I do it? Who knows. I guess we'll see.
> 
> I could not think of an elderly female character to play the role of benevolent grandma, so Tii got aged up. She loves her many, many sons and could probably kill a man if the need arose. Nobody ever talks about the sudden disappearance of her second husband.


	22. Twenty-Two

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Me: I can't write two chapters in time for Valentines.  
> Me, In a Cloak: Just slap 'em together for one big chapter
> 
> Happy Valentines, if you're celebrating. If you aren't, please enjoy this anyways.

Turnabout, Anakin comes to find, is fair game even when the one playing isn’t actively intending to.

Rako Hardeen is dead. There’s no other way to put it. He’s dead and rotting away in their basement because Obi-Wan is too proud to just dump his body in the woods. Never mind that doing what Obi-Wan wants, dragging the body back to Coruscant to string up like a particularly meaty piñata, will almost undoubtedly end with the both of them behind bars.  They argue about it for the better part of the day, screaming at each other from opposite ends of whatever room the happen to have carried their argument into; neither seems keen on having this out within arm’s reach of the other. Anakin knows he wouldn’t survive prison—not alone, at least. A successful career in law enforcement would push him to the front of the line for prison yard retribution without some kind of barrier between him and the gen pop, and no judge in their right mind would send he and Obi-Wan to the same prison after this whole affair.

Rako Hardeen is dead, and Obi-Wan is gone by the time the sun’s begun to set, leaving Anakin to contemplate the repercussions alone.

The first day, he tries to distract himself with the copycat killer’s case. Obi-Wan couldn’t risk an additional trip to the station following his original snatching of the case file, so they’ve been working mostly off what they share on the news and the questionable intelligence that the sketchy gossip rags publish. Anakin cuts the grainy photographs from the magazines Obi-Wan brought back on his trips, hanging them on the walls with the rest of the collage on the living room walls. They look strikingly out of place next to the glossy, professional crime scene photographs, but it’s the best that they can do. Afterwards, he goes through the articles, scratching out the useless conjecture with a black marker and highlighting information that might actually be helpful. There is very little of use beyond the bare bones of the crime scene details, but sometimes he stumbles upon a smudge of unwitting genius in the text.

One article in particular catches his eye, where an unidentified informant to the magazine claims to have overheard in a meeting between the bigwigs at the station that someone’s suspecting one of their own boys in blue might be responsible for the string of killings associated with Obi-Wan’s alias. While that’s not entirely false—Anakin does have a hand in them, now—it is an interesting theory. Obi-Wan may not be a cop, there’s nothing to say that their copycat isn’t. In fact, the more Anakin thinks about it, the more convincing a theory it becomes.

Whoever they’re playing this game with has been able to mimic Kenobi’s actions with enough skill that no one in the realm of Coruscant’s questionable effective law enforcement agency has even begun to suspect that they may be dealing with more than one killer. In order to do that, they’d need access to the case files. The news is only allowed so much information, and this killer clearly has better than what they’re allowed. It sends a chill down his spine to know that he may have interacted with their copycat in the past. May have worked cases or just chewed the fat in the break room with the person capable of the same horrors as the Negotiator himself.

Abandoning his seat on the couch, Anakin moves to the cabinet and fishes out one of the notepads Obi-Wan keeps there. _Cop?_ He scrawls in large letters on the page before tearing it out and taping it to the wall with the rest of their information. He narrows his eyes, letting his gaze skitter across the collage. “Who are you?” he asks, but there is no one there to listen.

By the second day, he’s beginning to feel a pit of concern forming in is gut. Obi-Wan had promised not to be gone long, to be back the next morning at the very latest, and his absence is like an itch under Anakin’s skin. A small part of him wonders if maybe the man is purposefully delaying his return in order to punish him for him for his disappearing act after the mess with Hardeen. The thought stings more than he’d care to admit; Kenobi has no right to punish him. It’s not like Anakin hadn’t done anything to him that he hadn’t deserved. It was Obi-Wan to dealt the first blow, and quite literally at that. The proof is in the bruising on Anakin’s face.

That worry, that fear, is swiftly turns to anger in his gut. Obi-Wan has no right. _No right_ to do this to him. He can yell and scream, if that’s what he wants, or maybe not even say a word. Anakin could handle the words; he could handle the silence. What he can’t stand is the thought of Kenobi punishing him by preying on the fears he knows Anakin to have for the state of their continued existence in this little cabin in the middle of nowhere.

If that’s how he wants to play it, then fine.

The contents of the cabinet in the living room are sent spilling across the living room floor; the pictures, articles, and handwritten notes of their carefully curated collage are stripped from the wall in a blind rage. They flutter to the ground, trampled under his feet when he paces the edge of the living room like a caged animal. He feels the need to destroy, to vent his frustrations on something more. The collage hadn’t been nearly as satisfying as he’d hoped it would be.

However, the more he thinks about the destruction he desires, the more he considers going into the kitchen and smashing plates or pulling framed pictures from the walls or upending Kenobi’s desk and spilling its contents across the floor, the more hesitant he becomes. What if Obi-Wan really is mad at him? What if he really is punishing him? If he is, and he returns to find that Anakin has trashed the cabin in his absence, won’t that make everything even worse?

That thought is enough to send the fear clawing its way back up its throat, freezing his destructive rampage in its tracks. What if Obi-Wan comes back and finds the living room in this state? He’d be furious; he trusts Anakin to keep everything in order whenever he takes his trips to Coruscant. Would he be mad enough to leave again? If he’s already punishing Anakin, what would he have to lose from vanishing for a few more days and leaving him to contemplate his actions?

Before he knows it he’s kneeling on the floor, collecting the fallen papers and stacking them neatly into piles. The things that go in the cabinet get returned to their place, the information on their case taped back up onto the wall just the way they were before he pitched his little fit. By the he’s done, it’s already past dark and Obi-Wan still hasn’t returned.

On the third day, that fear has taken hold, and Anakin isn’t sure what to do with himself. He leaves the television on as he wanders through the house, Artoo and Threepio tagging along behind, to fend off the quiet. He can’t muster the focus to actually sit down and pay attention to what’s happening on the screen, but the noise helps to muffle the overwhelming sound of Kenobi’s absence.

The pastries Miss Tii gave him remain in their box on the counter, untouched and long stale. He can’t quite muster the will to eat… or do anything else, really. If Obi-Wan were punishing him, he wouldn’t have drawn it out this far. He’s not that cruel—especially not to Anakin. He would have come back by now if there wasn’t something wrong.

Is this really how it’s going to end? Anakin, stranded in this cabin with no one but his dogs and Kenobi picked up by the CPD’s almost laughably incompetent cops? Would he starve to death here, as he thought that day Obi-Wan locked him in the bathroom, or would Kenobi cave and surrender his location first? He still believes the former to be more likely; Obi-Wan wouldn’t be able to live with himself knowing that Anakin was out in the real world unprotected. At least if he died here, the man would know just what became of him.

Should he try to make it down the mountain?

But no, not that. He doesn’t have the energy for that now. Hopelessness weighs heavy in his chest, and before the day is even halfway done, he finds himself propping open the front door that the dogs may go in and out as they please. Again he strips the linens from the bed and drags them into the closet. Anakin curls up in the dark and wonders if this is what Obi-Wan felt like when he woke to find Anakin missing.

* * *

 

The dawn of the fourth day brings with it the sound of tires on gravel. Anakin hasn’t slept, but the noise is enough to drag him from the haze of his own mind. For a long moment he isn’t sure if he trust his ears, or if this is just his mind playing tricks on him. It’s only been four days, he shouldn’t be that desperate yet, right? But then the dogs start barking, and he hears the sound of a car door slamming shut, and a moment later an achingly familiar voice calls “Anakin?”

He’s out of the closet before he’s even considered moving, tripping down the stairs and into the front hallway in his haste. He barely dare breathes for fear of ruining this; barely dares allow himself to believe this is actually happening lest it all be some great joke being played by the universe. Anakin stumbles to a halt at the base of the stairs, breath rushing from him as though someone had struck him when he catches sight of the man into doorway.

“You’re here,” he says. “You’re back.”

Obi-Wan is looking quite worn after his four days away. The clothes he left in, now rumpled and stained, are folded in a bundle held under his arm. What he’d managed to scrounge up to change into is ill-fitting and old. His hair is in disarray and what is visible of his face and neck is covered in bruises, but Anakin doesn’t think he’s ever found the man more beautiful. Kenobi releases his own relieved sigh at the sight of Anakin, dropping the bundle in his arms in favor of striding quickly down the hallway.

Anakin meets him halfway, throwing his arms around Obi-Wan’s neck and catching the older man’s lips in a heated kiss. The man’s overgrown beard scratches as his skin, grounding him in the moment. Hands settle on his hips, drawing him in, and Anakin is helpless against the siren’s song of Kenobi’s closeness.

He isn’t entirely certain just what happens next, caught up in the elation of Obi-Wan’s return. One moment they’re standing in the hallway, exchanging sloppy, fervent kisses, and the next he finds himself pinned with his belly to the wall. Kenobi is a warm, solid line along his back, and his hands trapped above his head by one of Obi-Wan’s own. The other is wrapped around Anakin, pulling on him and forcing him to arch back into Kenobi’s chest.

“You’re so beautiful, Anakin,” Obi-Wan murmurs, nuzzling the skin just behind Anakin’s ear. There is a lilt to his tone that Anakin knows well—the thick, accented drawl he gets when he’s exhausted his public façade and the darkness that lurks in the corners of his mind is vying for the reins. It used to terrify him, but he isn’t afraid now. “I should take you right here; have you up against this wall. Stars, you have no idea how much I want to.”

The younger man’s breath hitches when Kenobi slips his hand down past the waistband of his pants, fingers brushing feather-light over Anakin’s growing erection. “Y-you c-c-could,” he stutters, hips twitching involuntarily. He certainly wouldn’t be opposed to it.

Anakin feels like his skin is on fire; they’re hurtling toward the inevitable conclusion that’s loomed since their first meeting in the hallway between their apartments. In this moment, he _needs_ Obi-Wan. He needs him like he needs oxygen—needs the assurance that Kenobi is really here. Alive. Breathing. Safe. The man is an addiction he’s fallen into, and an increasingly growing part of him is certain that he’s never going to be able to break free.

Obi-Wan chuckles, hot, moist breath in his ear. Anakin can feel the rumble of his laughter against his back, and has to stop himself from moaning. “Of course I _could_ , dear one,” he replies, his own stiffening erection pressing against Anakin’s ass as he grinds leisurely against the younger man. “That was never up for debate. I think that right now I could have _anything_ I asked of you, but what I want is to do this the right way. So I’m going to take you upstairs and explore every inch of you, and then I’m going to fuck you into the mattress.” Kenobi emphasizes his words by finally wrapping his hand around Anakin’s cock, not tight enough to get him off, but enough to send sparks of pleasure pulsing up his spine with each lazy tug. “You’re going to beg for me, Anakin.”

“Please,” Anakin gasps, “Obi-Wan, please.”

Hands abruptly released, Anakin feels Kenobi pull away from him and turns to find the older man waiting, one hand outstretched in an unspoken request. Anakin drops his own hand into Obi-Wan’s upturned palm, unable to tear his eyes away from the man’s smoldering gaze. Fingers curl around his own, and he follows obediently when Obi-Wan begins to tug him toward the stairs.

Kenobi pushes Anakin into the bedroom ahead of him, quickly divesting him of his clothes as he backs him toward the stripped bed. The pillows and blankets are still in the closet where Anakin left them, leaving only a bare expanse of sheets. Obi-Wan doesn’t seem to care. “I have waited so long for this,” he breathes, almost reverent. Still, there is no savoring this part of their coupling; there is only the animal hunger that lurks just behind Obi-Wan’s eyes.

Anakin is completely naked by the time the back of his knees hit the edge of the mattress, shoved roughly down onto its surface. Obi-Wan is quick to tug his own clothes off, eager as Anakin is to feel the glide of skin against skin, especially following their long seperation. In the meantime Anakin stretches against the sheets, arching his back and allowing the older man an uninhibited view of softly tanned skin and lean muscle.

Humming appreciatively, Obi-Wan climbs up the length of the bed with a feline grace, looking every part the predator Anakin knows him to be. He glides his hands up Anakin’s thighs, his stomach, his neck, until he’s kneeling over the younger man and his hands frame Anakin’s face. Leaning down, he catches Anakin’s lips in a kiss.

Ceding control is easy; giving himself over to Obi-Wan’s whim as he has in every other aspect of his life. Fingers slide sensuously back down his body, mapping him in the same way they had once done that morning after Anakin tried to escape into the woods. They skim down over his collarbone and pluck at pert nipples, dragging a low moan from Anakin, before continuing on in their quest. They ghost along his belly, follow the delicate trail of hair there further down, brush agonizingly gently against the base of his cock.

Obi-Wan’s lips follow, pulling away from Anakin’s own to place soft kisses down the line of his throat, to nip at the skin of his chest, drag his tongue along the line his fingers just drew and lick the sweat from his skin. Anakin’s fingers clench and unclench in the sheets, breath coming in ragged pants as Obi-Wan shifts to tug his thighs apart and situate himself between them. He trails his lips along the join of Anakin’s hip and thigh, beard scratching at the skin and skirting the only place Anakin wishes the man would put his damned mouth. Then, he bites down hard on the soft meat of the younger man’s inner thigh. Hissing at the strange amalgamation of pleasure and pain that comes with the possessive gesture, Anakin’s fingers tangle in Obi-Wan’s already untidy hair and tug until he finally deigns to release the delicate flesh. The bite has broken skin, will undoubtedly scar when it’s healed, and Obi-Wan takes a moment to simply stare at the wound, profoundly smug, before allowing Anakin to direct him where he wants.

He doesn’t manage to stifle his gasp when Obi-Wan finally switches his attention to Anakin’s aching cock, placing a soft kiss to its head before taking it into his mouth all at once. It has obviously been some time since he’s done this, and Anakin can’t help the satisfaction in knowing that for all the lovers Obi-Wan took, all the would-have-could-have-should-have-been Anakin’s, this was something he never gave to them. Kenobi _took_ from those men, but he is _giving_ for Anakin. This gesture, this moment, is his alone.

Kenobi finds his rhythm in time, and Anakin nearly comes undone just from the sight of Obi-Wan’s lips stretched around his girth, swollen and reddened by their activities. “Obi-Wan,” he rasps when the older man abruptly pulls off, dragging him back from the precarious edge, “Obi-Wan, please.”

“Not yet, Ani,” Kenobi chides, slipping out from between Anakin’s legs. “I need you to hold on just a little bit longer.”

Anakin watches as he climbs off the bed, moving over to the nightstand and rustling through it in search of something. There’s a small bottle in his hand when he returns, and Anakin can feel his heartrate pick up with his anticipation. Urging Anakin’s legs further apart, Obi-Wan settles back down between them. The feeling of slick fingers brushed against his entrance startles him, and he reflexively flinches away from the contact. Obi-Wan shushes him, murmuring encouragements and endearments as he presses a first finger past the ring of muscle.

While his coworkers had once liked to joke about his occasionally promiscuous behavior, it has been years since Anakin has given himself up to another man. It takes his body a moment to remember the feeling of intrusion and adjust accordingly. Obi-Wan adds a second finger when he judges Anakin ready, then a third, working him open at torturously slow pace. Kenobi’s gaze never wavers from Anakin’s face, watching in rapt fascination as his eyes screw up and he bites down on his lip with a pleased whimper when Obi-Wan’s fingers curl _just right_ inside him.

Finally, when his own impatience finally gets the better of him, Kenobi his fingers free. Obi-Wan pops the cap on the bottle of lubricant and slicks up his own cock in preparation for what is to come. Anakin has been distantly aware of it all night, hanging heavily between Kenobi’s legs, pre-cum glistening at its tip, but neither had really paid it any real attention until now—Anakin too caught up in his pleasure and Obi-Wan saving himself for this moment. The head of Kenobi’s cock presses against his entrance, stretching but not quite breaching the rim. Anakin shudders at the sensation, attempting to rock down onto it, but firm hands still his hips and pin him to the sheets.

“Anakin,” Obi-Wan says, “Anakin, sweetheart, look at me.” He does, taking in the furrow of his brow and the wildness in his eyes that probably matches Anakin’s own. “This is your last chance, Anakin,” he continues. “It can stop if you want it to. Right here, right now. All you have do is say the words. Is that what you want? Do you want me to stop?”

Even half-delirious with pleasure, Anakin knows what Obi-Wan is doing. What he’s asking. He remembers that first night when Kenobi told him that one day, he wouldn’t say no. “D-don’t, stars, Obi-Wan, please don’t,” he begs, screwing his eyes shut. He can’t bring himself to look at Kenobi when the words slip past his lips. “ _Don’t stop_.”

He regrets opening his eyes the second he does, watching a victorious smile curl Obi-Wan’s lips. Anakin knows in that moment that, this game they’ve been playing? He’s lost. He’s lost, and in the next heartbeat Kenobi is _inside him_ , buried to the hilt in one swift, sharp thrust. The minute he gets to adjust is likely more for Obi-Wan’s sake than Anakin’s, the older man curled over him, fingers digging painfully into his hips, mouth hanging open in his bliss.

It’s not slow, or gentle, but Anakin hadn’t expected it to be; he hadn’t wanted it to be. Obi-Wan takes one of Anakin’s legs and throws it over his shoulder, fingers digging cruelly into the bite he made there as he moves, burying himself as deep as he can manage with every snap of his hips. It’s not lovemaking, for all Kenobi might believe otherwise. It’s a claiming, and Anakin can’t bring himself to want Obi-Wan to stop. He’s struggled his whole life with one thing or another: a childhood in poverty, the death of his mother, the judgement of his peers, the weight of responsibility. He’s fought and fought, and he’s done fighting. There is something exquisite about surrendering to this man who has slowly become his world.

Kenobi’s nails dig into the bite one last time, a wordless reminder, before he allows Anakin’s leg to slide off his shoulder in order to lean forward and catch the younger man’s lips. He’s aided by Anakin, who pushes up on one elbow to meet him halfway, the other arm wrapping around Kenobi’s back to hold himself there. It’s sloppy, heated, more moans panted into the other’s mouth than any real kissing. Anakin doesn’t care; he can feel Kenobi moving inside him. He’s here, he’s real, and Anakin’s fingernails bite into Obi-Wan’s skin at a particularly hard thrust, the man’s cock brushing against a spot that makes him see stars. The moan he receives in return is nearly enough to send him tumbling over the edge.

“You’re so beautiful,” Obi-Wan purrs, “such a good boy,” and one of his hands closes around Anakin’s dick. It takes very little after that, a thrust of Kenobi’s hips and a softly murmured encouragement, and he’s painting his chest as he comes. Obi-Wan pace falters at that, and he’s following Anakin only a few strokes later, attempting to muffle a ragged moan in Anakin’s shoulder. He slumps down atop Anakin, still inside him, and strokes the younger man’s hair dazedly. “My good boy,” he murmurs into Anakin’s skin, and they stay like that until they doze off.

* * *

 

Obi-Wan is already up by the time Anakin rouses, showered and dressed and looking as impeccable as ever. Anakin isn’t entirely sure how he managed it, considering he feels like he got run over by a patrol car at the moment. The bite mark on his leg throbs dully, and he’s pretty sure he managed to pull muscles in places where you shouldn’t be able to. The sheets still reek of sex, and the idea of sitting up is daunting, backside still stinging from the rough treatment. He does anyways, if only so he can figure out what is causing the downright distraught look on Kenobi’s face.

There’s a box in his hands, Anakin notes. Simple and unadorned, shaped that Anakin suspects its contents to be some kind of jewelry. He doesn’t know why that would make Obi-Wan nervous though. Nervous enough that he won’t even meet Anakin’s eyes where he’s perched on the edge of the bed.

“Hey,” Anakin asks, trying to catch his attention, “what’s the matter?”

“Nothing,” Obi-Wan replies, drumming his fingers on the lid of the box in a tick that directly contradicts his statement. He licks his lips anxiously, swallows, and his eyes flicker to Anakin’s throat for the briefest of moments. “I’d like to offer you something,” he announces. “Please understand that you are by no means obliged to accept, if it makes you uncomfortable. I had it made last year—I still have no idea what I was thinking—but now that you’re here…”

He offers the box awkwardly, still not meeting Anakin’s eyes, and there is a brief moment, when the younger man tries to take it, that he thinks Kenobi won’t let go. The man does pry his fingers loose after a moment’s hesitation, then his hands move to his lap, clasping together for lack of anything else to do with them. He doesn’t watch as Anakin opens the box.

Inside is what appears to be a collar. Anakin’s mouth is dry as he fishes it from the box, setting that aside afterward in order to better inspect its contents. Rich, dark leather, clearly custom made. The hardware, stitching, and a small D-ring are all a gold color, standing out against the leather without clashing. There is also, Anakin notes, a small name plaque attached to the collar itself, rather than hanging off the D-ring like a traditional tag. _Anakin Skywalker_ , it reads in neat, curling letters.

It’s been a long time since Anakin wore anyone’s collar. Not since he was young and stupid and in need of a firm hand to keep him on the right track. While there had been brief flings in the years between then and now, he hadn’t thought he’d ever trust anyone enough to allow them this. Had anyone asked, the answer would have been no.

He curls his fingers around the collar, staring down at it, and shoves it back at Obi-Wan. The man takes it back, and Anakin glances up to see hurt in Kenobi’s eyes as he reaches toward the box on the nightstand.

“N-no!” Anakin sputters, realizing there’s been a miscommunication. Obi-Wan stops, confused. “I mean, can you… put it on me?”

There’s something gratifying in watching realization bloom across Obi-Wan’s face, the downtrodden expression he’d previously worn morphing into radiant delight. “Of course, dearest one. Come here.”

Anakin shuffles closer, tilting his head up to bare his throat and holding perfectly still as Kenobi winds the strip of leather around his neck. The man’s hands are shaking, but he is exceedingly gentle when he closes and locks the clasp, sliding a few fingers beneath the band to ensure a comfortable fit. Afterward, he leans back, brushing his hand along the leather and studying its contrast against the skin of Anakin’s throat. Obi-Wan’s expression, Anakin thinks, could be described as nothing other than awed.

“I love you,” Obi-Wan breathes, hooking his fingers beneath the collar again and pulling Anakin closer.

Anakin flushes, flashing him a shy smile. “I love you, too.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The link didn't work in the last chapter and I forgot to go back and edit it, so here's BigWolfPup's [ book cover ](http://jedi-obibunny-kenobi.tumblr.com/post/156782897967) for this fic! Thanks, friend!
> 
> Now if you'll excuse me, I have to go keel over and die of exhaustion, probably.


	23. Twenty-Three

**Nine Years Ago**

The tang of alcohol is heavy on Anakin’s tongue and he lost count two or three drinks ago of exactly how many he’d had. That was, of course, the purpose of this little outing: get sloshed, pick someone up, get lucky. And while he’s having great success in the first category, the second and third are proving to be more elusive.

So far, the only men to approach him are the standard silver foxes you find in Coruscant’s more reputable S&M clubs, sneaking out under their wives’ noses to screw the pool boy without the risk of getting caught in the tool shed. As much as Anakin would really like to go home with someone tonight, that isn’t what he’s looking for. Fortunately, they find out quite quickly that Anakin isn’t what they really want, either. He’s snarky, a bit of a brat, which doesn’t fall into the category of ‘willing, warm body’ that they’re looking to check off. They get the memo; they leave.

Or at least, most of them do.

One man in particular, however, hasn’t been able to comprehend that Anakin wants nothing to do with him. He hovers like a particularly persistent shadow, driving away any other interested parties before Anakin even has a chance to open his mouth. Despite the fact that it would be a waste of a perfectly good drink, he’s more and more tempted to pour the contents of his glass into the man’s lap, perhaps hurling the glass itself at him for good measure, afterwards. He’d come to one of the nicer clubs to avoid running into some of the city’s seedier characters; now he’s wondering if he should have taken that risk.

“Look man, I told you I’m not interested,” Anakin snaps when a hand settles on his shoulder once again.

“My apologies,” a cultured voice that absolutely does not belong to his unwanted admirer says, snapping Anakin’s gaze up from the bar in a heartbeat. “I’ll leave you to it, then.”

The man at his side is tall and well-built, with dark eyes and handsome features. He has a few years on Anakin, but not enough to give him the same predatory air as the other men that have approached him. Thin lips, surrounded by a small but neatly-trimmed beard, smirk at the undoubtedly dumbfounded expression on Anakin’s face. Is it possible that after striking out all night, he may have actually had his prayers answered?

“No!” He’s quick to spit out when the man makes to step away, gesturing awkwardly at the seat beside him. “No, please, stay.”

Handsome Mystery Man slides into the proffered seat, flagging the bartender down and ordering his own drink before turning to face Anakin. He doesn’t miss the way the man’s eyes slide down his body, clearly assessing. “Hello,” the man says, offering a hand, “I’m Bail Organa.”

“Anakin Skywalker.”

Conversation flows easily, even pleasantly, between them. Bail is a lawyer at a successful private firm, with a loving wife who doesn’t mind him occasionally entertaining his more unusual proclivities so long as he returns home at the end of the night. He’s intelligent, charming, with a tongue sharp enough to keep up with Anakin’s own. Surely the gods must have taken pity on him, because his continued presence at Anakin’s side has even driven away his persistent admirer.

“How old are you, Anakin?” Organa asks when a silence finally falls between them, abruptly shattering the brewing tension.

The younger man feels himself blanch, dropping his eyes down and away from Bail. “My ID says I’m twenty-one,” he says. It’s not the answer Organa is seeking, but it’s also not an outright lie.

“I know what your ID says,” Bail replies, sipping casually his bourbon. Anakin catches the jump of his jaw, however, that indicates he’s displeased with the avoidance. “That isn’t what I asked, however.”

There’s a look in Organa’s eye that warns Anakin not to lie, no matter how much he wants to. Telling the truth could get him in trouble, could ruin the future of his career, but the answer slips past his lips nonetheless. “Eighteen.”

“That’s what I thought.” Organa puts his glass down and pushes off the bar stool, smoothing down the wrinkles in his shirt as he does so. “You’re taking quite a risk, being honest with me.”

“Am I going to regret it?” Anakin can’t stop himself from asking, sharper than is perhaps wise considering the situation.

Bail smiles at him, genuine enough to smooth Anakin’s frayed nerves. “Not if you come home with me.”

Anakin is genuinely surprised by the offer; he’d expected to be unceremoniously dumped now that the truth is out. “Taking advantage of my youthful indiscretion, Mr. Organa?”

He accepts the hand Bail offers him, allowing the man to haul him to unsteady feet. “Not tonight, my boy,” he replies. “Tonight, I’d simply like to be sure you dry out in one piece. However, once your head is a bit clearer… Well, Breha does occasionally like to watch.”

* * *

**Present**

“Don’t scratch,” Bail snaps, glancing away from the road for a moment to make sure that his order is obeyed.

Anakin’s hands slide down from his neck and the thin band of metal around it. Unlike Obi-Wan’s collar—wide and dark, soft leather loudly proclaiming ownership—Bail’s own is cold and unobtrusive, the small, metal rings and lack of a tag easily mistaken for a run of the mill necklace if one couldn’t see the locking mechanism at the nape of Anakin’s neck.

Fresh out of high school and with months until his first day at the Police Academy, Bail’s arrival in his life almost nine years ago had seemed like exactly what he needed to get out of the rut he’d fallen into.

They’d parted ways when Anakin was twenty, when Padme had come onto the scene. It was a congenial parting, and they’d remained friends up until the point Padme had shown up in divorce court with Bail on her heels. A ‘conflict of interest’ Organa had called it when Anakin had asked why he couldn’t represent _him_. That was the last time they’d spoken until Bail tore into his interrogation room like an avenging angel.

The man himself sighs, staring at the raised skin on Anakin’s neck where he’d been clawing at the new collar. While it is technically his, the same one he’d worn during their affair, it doesn’t fit comfortably around his throat like it used to. Instead it itches, chafes, in a sensation he knows to be more the product of his imagination than any true feeling. This isn’t the collar he’s supposed to be wearing; this is not Obi-Wan’s collar.

His hand drifts up to scratch at the chain once again, only to be forestalled by a sharp look from Organa. “We’re going to have to trim your nails when we get to the house,” Bail sighs.

Anakin scowls down at his hands. Obi-Wan always preferred to have Anakin’s nails on the longer side; he liked taking care of them, liked to feel them dig into his back when they—

“Are you sure Breha’s going to be ok with this?” he asks, if only to distract himself from that train of thought.

“Yes, I’m sure. We discussed the matter when we found out about what happened, and she agreed with me that it would be for the best if you stayed with us until the department decides exactly what they want to do with you. They’re still discussing whether or not they’re going to charge you as an accessory.”

“How did you even manage to get them to agree to this? They wouldn’t even let me go to the bathroom without somebody hovering over my shoulder.”

“I had a judge that owed me a favor,” Bail confides. “He was convinced that, right now, I know what’s going on inside that head of yours better than anyone. I can keep you from trying anything stupid and hurting yourself again, unlike your incompetent former colleagues.”

“And what makes you think I’m not going to just run off as soon as your back is turned?”

“Because I’ve already told you not to,” Organa replies as he pulls the car up into the long drive of the family’s estate, “and because the GPS tracker on your ankle will alert the officers stationed outside the gate if you wander too close to the edge of the property.”

Anakin looks down at the offending device: a small, black box attached to a band and locked around his ankle. It will keep the CPD informed to his location all times, and alert them not only if he wanders too far, but also if he tries to take the damned thing off. It’s a good incentive to stay put, he supposes; Obi-Wan will have some idea of what to do about it, when he tracks Anakin down.

Breha comes from old money, and Bail’s job as a lawyer only further aids in supporting their lifestyle. It’s not extravagant in the way some people of equal social standing’s lifestyles are, but it still far surpasses anything that Anakin’s ever head. The house is a vast, sprawling thing, inherited from Breha’s parents and maintained by a small army of private staff. The lawn is carefully manicured, and an elaborate garden winds its way from the road and up to the front porch. Anakin can remember the first time he stood on that porch, leaning against Bail for support in his helpless, drunken stupor. He feels equally helpless now, though it has little to do with alcohol this time.

The woman herself steps out onto the porch as Bail helps Anakin from the car, one hand covering her mouth as though she can’t quite believe the sight before her. Anakin knows he looks a wreck: wrists bandaged, barefoot, and still in the pajamas he was arrested in. While Breha didn’t share in her husband’s proclivities, she’d always enjoyed making sure he was well cared for whenever he spend time with them. To see him in such a state must be distressing.

She meets them on the garden path, not hesitating to throw her arms around Anakin’s neck and drag him down in to a tight embrace. He goes willingly, curls against her and tucks his head into the hollow of her throat, breathing in the floral scent of her perfume. “Oh, Anakin,” she says, “we’re so glad you’re ok.”

Until this moment, Breha’s arms around him and Bail’s hand a steady pressure at the small of his back, he hadn’t realized how much he’d missed them.

Breha finally releases him, stepping away to give her husband a quick kiss before directing them onward to the house. “Let’s get you inside. I’m sure you could use a bath, Anakin. I’ve seen those interrogation rooms.”

He nods thankfully and allows himself to be escorted through the front door. The house is just as beautiful on the inside as the outside, sparsely but stylishly furnished to match the couple’s sophisticated tastes. Very little has changed in the years since his last encounter with the pair, with the exception of, Anakin notes, children’s toys scattered across the plush rug in the sitting room they pass through. It’s no surprise that Breha and Bail have children, they’d always discussed having them, though Anakin can’t help but feel a little surprised that they’d willingly invited him into their house with children in the equation. They know that Kenobi is still at large; they know there’s a likely chance that the man will try to find him.

“Why don’t you go check on the twins, and I’ll help Anakin draw a bath,” Breha suggests, ushering Anakin into what he knows to be the master bedroom. Bail disappears through a connecting door, leading to what must be the twins’ room, and Anakin is steered into the master bath.

The bathroom and its large, deep tub are a familiar sight; it’s surprisingly easy to fall back into the old routine as Breha kneels by the tub, starting the flow of water and pouring in an array of soaps and salts. He strips out of his stale clothes, tripping briefly when the tracker anklet gets caught on his pants, before folding them neatly and setting them in a pile by the door for Breha to decide what to do with. He doesn’t think much of his nudity, it’s not anything the woman hasn’t seen before, until he hears her breath catch in surprise. It occurs to him then that he’d completely forgotten to take into account Obi-Wan’s proclivity for marking him. It’s not as bad today as it had been on some others, but it was never something Bail had a taste for. Anakin forces himself to hold still as Breha approaches, allowing her to take in the bruising and occasional scar from days Kenobi had gotten a little too rough, avoiding looking at her mournful expression.

“I’m sorry we didn’t find you sooner,” she says, tracing the path of a scar across his collarbone, fingers feather-light.

Anakin shrugs, dislodging her touch. “There’s nothing you could have done.”

She doesn’t seem particularly convinced, but cedes to his unspoken desire not to speak of the matter any further. Instead Breha helps him into the tub, rolling up her sleeves and falling into the old, familiar task of lathering his hair with soap. Her fingers in his hair are a comfort after the long hours he spent in the interrogation room, the first welcome contact to be had since Ahsoka’s brief visit. In fact, by the time she’s done rinsing the suds from his curls, Anakin’s mind is a pleasant haze and he’s practically purring under her hand.

“It’s nice to see that some things never change,” Breha murmurs fondly, smoothing his hair back one more time before reaching over to unstop the drain.

There’s a pair of Bail’s sleep clothes waiting for him one he’s dry. The man being both taller and more heavily built than Anakin, they hang off his body. The stress of everything is finally making itself known now that he’s had the chance to get away from the constant threat of the station. Exhaustion weighs heavy on him, Anakin’s eyelids drooping as he shuffles from the bathroom and back into the bedroom. He wants nothing more than to collapse on the couple’s enormous bed and fall into the clutches of sleep, but Breha catches him before he can and steers him toward the door connecting the bedroom to the twins’ room. “Not just yet, Anakin,” she says. “There are some people we’d like you to meet, first.”

 _People_ , Anakin comes to finds, are the two small children in the next room, curled up in their respective cribs and fast asleep. Bail stands beside one of them, running a careful hand over the infant’s tiny head and offering the approaching pair a soft smile.

“Anakin,” he announces, voice pitched low to keep the children from waking, “we’d like you to meet Leia, and her twin brother Luke.”

Anakin creeps forward, peering over the edge of one crib to inspect the child within. The girl, _Leia_ , is so small. Sure Anakin’s seen infants before, but for some reason Bail’s daughter seems smaller and perhaps more fragile than most. She’s tiny, with a shock of dark brown hair on the top of her head, still and peaceful in sleep. The boy, _Luke_ , is restless as he dozes, twitching with the dreams that dance behind his eyes. His hair is a soft gold in contrast to his sister’s.

“They’re beautiful,” Anakin says, flashing the pair an earnest grin. “Congratulations.”

They thank him, but there’s something in their eyes that confuses him. They seem to be searching for something as he stares down at the children, though he can’t quite figure out what. Recognition, perhaps? But why?

“It must have been rough, carrying twins,” he adds, for lack of anything better to say. The couple’s silence is quickly becoming unnerving.

“They’re adopted, actually,” Bail replies, stepping forward to place his hands on Anakin’s shoulder. He doesn’t like that; Bail only does that when he’s about to say something he knows Anakin isn’t going to like. “Anakin, did you know that Padme was pregnant before you went missing?”

The answer is no, which he would tell Bail if not for the way his brain has short-circuited with the news. His silence must be answer enough, however, because the man squeezes his shoulders in attempt to ground him back in the moment before he continues.

“The last I’d heard before you disappeared, she was still trying to figure out a way to tell you.”

“How—?” Anakin chokes, and it must be louder than he intends, because the couple ushers him back into their bedroom, closing the connecting door between.

Bail and Breha settle on the edge of the bed, sitting him down in the space between them. “She mentioned something about a party a couple months before you went missing?”

When he thinks on it, he can remember that night. Vaguely. A celebration hosted by a mutual friend, the reason lost in the haze of alcohol, had led to them running into each other. Too much to drink, old feelings sparking, and they’d tumbled into bed together in a profoundly poor decision that’d apparently resulted in the two children the next room over. Anakin’s children.

That party was at least three months before he went missing; his children have to be almost six months old now. He’d missed their first breaths, missed their first days at home, missed the long sleepless nights that come with early infancy.

He doesn’t let himself think on what Padme’s absence means. When they believed themselves to have a future together, they’d discussed the possibility of children. Padme had wanted to adopt, had mentioned the risks of carrying children due to her family history, and Anakin doesn’t have to be told that she won’t be coming back for Luke and Leia. What’s more—

“I’ll never get to know them, will I?” Anakin asks as Bail and Breha tuck him into the bed between them.

“If you agree to get help,” Bail says quietly, “if you go through a program and learn to get out on your own again, maybe we can work out a visitation schedule. But no, Anakin, no jury is ever going to give you custody.”

Organa’s honesty is appreciated, even as hot tears sting his eyes. He doesn’t want false platitudes. This surprise, though, has thrown a wrench in his plans. It had been his intention to flee with Obi-Wan as soon as the man found him, to run away and never looked back, but now there is something tying him here. The thought of abandoning his children is horrifying now that he knows of their existence, but a life without Kenobi is equally terrifying.

What the hell is he supposed to do now?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anakin's got some big decisions to make in the future.
> 
> Bail/Anakin isn't one of my usual ships. It just kind of happened while I was writing this one.
> 
> Lovely Collared Ani Art:  
> [ Valentine ](http://jedi-obibunny-kenobi.tumblr.com/post/157254264072/id-kill-for-you-valentine-man-i-have-never) by BigWolfPup
> 
> Collared & Cuffed  by InHeavenlyGrass


	24. Twenty-Four

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the copycat makes a bold move.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is on the shorter side, but I needed to publish something cuz it's been a while.  
> Bringing back that tag for animal abuse in this chapter.

Anakin might have once thought that the novelty of sex would have worn off for Obi-Wan after the first week or two. Having taken Anakin over what might possibly be every available surface of the cabin, seemingly trying to ingrain himself in the younger’s every pore, surely the man would eventually wear himself out. That doesn’t seem to be the case as both struggle to catch their breath, Anakin’s legs hooked around Obi-Wan’s waist and the man’s hands under his thighs, back digging into the bark of the tree trunk behind him where his coat and shirt have been rucked up. A small part of him is worried he’s going to be digging splinters out of his back for days.

“We were walking the dogs,” Anakin pants out when Kenobi finally deigns to put him down, grimacing at the wet feeling that slicks down his thighs as he pulls his jeans back up. “There is such a thing as too spontaneous.”

Obi-Wan laughs at his dry remark, righting his own clothing before dropping down to earth by Anakin’s feet and leaning back against the trunk of the tree he’d just been fucking the younger man against. “Nothing wrong with a bit of fresh air, dear one,” he says, taking a deep breath as though to prove his point.

The seasons have just begun to change, the mild, spring weather chasing away winter’s bitter edge. Along with the pleasant temperatures and blooming life, the new season has brought with it a change in Obi-Wan’s demeanor. He’s more lax, outgoing, the seemingly permanent tension to his shoulders unwinding as he leaves the pressures of winter and its memories behind. Sometimes when they’re relaxing together, nursing bottles of whatever alcohol they had in the pantry while Kenobi grades papers, Anakin can almost imagine that the last few months never happened. He can look at Obi-Wan pretend they’re back in their shitty apartments and he’s just come over for a few rounds of beer after another day on the force. Of course those fantasies never last long, with Obi-Wan’s relentless drive eventually causing him to abandon his grading endeavors in favor of something more pleasurable. Still, those breaks from reality have served to keep him sane since the change in their relationship.

Here, in the cabin with naught but Kenobi and their dogs, it would be easy to cede control completely. It would be so, so easy to simply let go and drown in Obi-Wan Kenobi’s every whim. Those moments when he remembers, however, keep his head above water. They remind him to fight from time to time, even if he knows it’s a futile effort to struggle against the crashing waves. Obi-Wan doesn’t mind, enjoying the occasional challenge of wrestling him into submission—of cuffing him to the headboard and watching him writhe until he’s too worn out to protest the older man’s control. It’s a sickeningly bizarre win-win situation.

Anakin settles down next to Obi-Wan, allowing the man to draw him into his side as they stare at the budding leaves on the branches above. “How far do you think the dogs have wandered while we were… distracted?”

“I suppose that depends on how brave Threepio is feeling today,” Kenobi muses. “He usually sets the radius of how far they wander.”

“Fair point.”

They lapse into silence for a brief moment, simply relishing in the sights and sounds of spring. The woods have just begun to come alive, small creatures emerging from their winter hideaways as the plant life blooms back to vibrant life. Anakin’s never been in such a wild place, and finds himself marveling at the sway of the branches, pale green with the buds of new growth, as the gentle, spring breeze flows through them.

“I haven’t been out here in years,” Obi-Wan confesses, leaning his head to rest on Anakin’s shoulder. “Not since the last time we came up as a family. Certainly not since Qui-Gon died.”

Anakin finds himself absently nuzzling Obi-Wan’s hair, relishing in the casual contact. “You still seem to know your way around well enough.”

“Had to learn. Qui-Gon was petrified we’d wander too far from the house and get lost. These woods can be dangerous without the proper skillset.”

“Don’t have to tell me that,” Anakin murmurs, remembering the cold night he spent lost out here so many weeks ago. “You’ll have to teach me one day.”

He feels Obi-Wan nod against him, slow, belaying and exhaustion Anakin can feel echoed in his own muscles. It seems their spontaneous romp had taken more out of them then they realized. “I’d love to, my dear,” he replies, then is quiet once more. Anakin can feel himself dozing off, but catches the soft words Kenobi speaks before he plunges into unconsciousness. “I’m glad I came out here with you.”

* * *

 

The first gunshot startles them, jerking out of their doze, but not truly alarming them yet. It could be just another hunter that’s wandered too close to the cabin, after all, in pursuit of springtime game. No, it’s the second shot that puts them on their feet, fear swelling up in their chests when the _bang_ of the gunshot is followed by the unmistakable yelp of a wounded animal.

“Threepio?” Obi-Wan calls. “Artoo?”

Anakin doesn’t bother to wait for some kind of response, taking off at a jog through the woods, following the sound of pained whining that echoes through the trees. Kenobi catches up to him after only a moment and then keeping pace, clearly displeased with him charging off alone. Anakin’s heart feels like it’s stuck in his throat, cutting off his ability to speak and swallow and even breathe deeply. There’s only its pounding, loud and incessant. As they jog, Obi-Wan continues to call for the dogs, but neither come. If one of them is injured, it’s highly unlikely the other would leave their side. They’ve bonded in the months since their introduction, inseparable on a good day. Anakin suspects this is not a good day.

“Threepio? Artoo?” Pushing their way past a particularly thick patch of underbrush, Anakin gets one glimpse of the dogs—Artoo hovering protectively over a worryingly still Threepio, hackles raised as he stares down something—before Obi-Wan knocks him aside with a panicked shout of, “Anakin! Look out!”

A third shot rings out, and Obi-Wan’s blood splatters the underbrush when the bullet makes impact where Anakin had just been standing. If it hadn’t been for the older man’s quick reaction, he may have very well been dead. Both men fall to the ground, Kenobi clutching at his shoulder. Blood oozes through his fingers, dripping down onto the forest floor. He’s still alive, groaning faintly in pain, but independent movement seems to be beyond him now. The fourth, fifth, and sixth shots hit the space around them, kicking up dirt and splintering wood when the bullets impact in the earth and the tree trunks behind them.

Anakin loses count of the shots after that, more focused on dragging himself and Obi-Wan to safety before their attacker can land another lucky hit. He doesn’t want to abandon the dogs to whatever fate may befall them, can’t stand the thought of leaving them unprotected, but Kenobi’s blood is coating both of their hands and he knows years of police work that sometimes you have to make choices even when there’s no good option. So he keeps them both low as he leads them out of the line of fire, dragging Obi-Wan behind a jutting rock formation large enough to shield them. The only good thing about the bullets that ping off the other side of the stone, Anakin thinks, is that they at least aren’t being shot at his dogs. Apparently, he and Obi-Wan make for much more appealing targets.

While they wait for their attacker to make his next move, Anakin strips off the scarf that’s somehow managed to stay tied around Obi-Wan’s neck and presses it to the man’s shoulder. Kenobi groans, reaching up as though to try and push Anakin off, but eventually just ends up curling his fingers around the younger man’s wrist in an almost painfully tight grip. While the bullet doesn’t seem to have hit anything vital—Kenobi’s breathing remains unhindered and he doesn’t seem to be losing blood more quickly than he should be—he’s still been shot and they’re stuck behind this damnable rock until the shooter decides what to do next.

“The shots—they’re coming from the road,” Kenobi forces out through gritted teeth, and Anakin would be impressed at how well the man’s maintained his sense of direction in the woods if not for the fact that he’s going to bleed out under Anakin’s palm at this rate.

“Shut up,” he hisses in return, feeling panic spike when he realizes that the sound of firing has stopped. Has their attacker decided to bring the fight to them? Anakin’s out of shape; he isn’t sure he could defend them if it came to a physical fight, especially with a gun in the equation. If it does come to that, he’ll sure as hell go down swinging, even if it only slows the man down. Their attacker will have to go through Anakin if he wants to hurt Obi-Wan any more.

Despite his resolution, he still nearly sobs with relief when he hears a car’s engine roar to life. Kenobi had been right—the shooter had been firing from the road. Tires squeal as the attacker makes his departure, apparently deciding the warning shots were enough, taking off now that his message has been delivered. He’ll be back, unquestioningly, but his temporary retreat gives Anakin much-needed time to help Obi-Wan and Threepio. If the latter is even still alive.

He doesn’t realize he’s been mumbling a steady stream of _no no no no no_ , until Obi-Wan’s squeezes his wrist hard enough to grind bone together, breaking him out of the haze and forcing him to look at the man. Kenobi’s free hand comes up, pressing over the scarf to hold it in place when he pushes Anakin’s hands away. “I’ll be fine,” he says with a smile that is only half convincing. He’s pale—even more so than usual—with blood loss and stress; his hand trembles where it holds Anakin’s. “Go check on Threepio and Artoo.”

As much as he doesn’t want to leave Obi-Wan alone, he doesn’t need to be told twice. Now that the immediate danger has passed, the fear for his animals’ lives has come flooding back in. He calls to them as he rises, stepping out from the shelter of the rocks to search when he receives no answer. “Artoo? Threepio?”

When he locates them, he finds that neither has moved. The only thing that’s changed is that Artoo’s intense focus has swung from their attacker to Anakin. He’s riled enough that he doesn’t seem to recognize his owner at first, baring teeth and stepping defensively between Theepio and Anakin as the man slowly approaches. Anakin murmurs to dog as he draws nearer, trying to calm. He dare not step within reach of Artoo’s jaws until he knows the dog will allow him, remembering Savage’s scream that night in the alleyway.

Closer now, he can see the faint rise and fall of Threepio’s chest. The dog is still alive, and it feels like a massive weight has been lifted off his shoulders. He honestly doesn’t know what he would have done if Threepio hadn’t been—if he’d been unable to protect his furry family as well as the man bleeding nearby.

Artoo finally relents, allowing Anakin to inspect the golden dog while he hovers close by. Threepio, for his worrying stillness and the soft whining Anakin can hear now that he’s close enough, doesn’t seem to have been hit by anything more than a bullet’s graze. It’s torn the skin along the dog’s side, staining fur a blood red, but Anakin suspects that it looks far worse than it is. A part of him wonders if their attacker had actually intended to kill the dog, or if injuring him had simply served as bait to draw himself and Kenobi into the line of fire.

“How is he?” Obi-Wan calls, unable to see for the bulk of the rock he’s leaning against. That he’s talking means he hasn’t slipped into unconsciousness yet—a good sign.

“Looks like just a graze,” Anakin replies as he hauls Threepio into his arms, careful not to jostle the dog’s wound as he does so. While it doesn’t look bad now, there’s no sense in agitating it and possibly making it worse.

When he returns to Obi-Wan’s side, the older man is struggling to his feet. Anakin doesn’t think he should be moving, but doesn’t voice the complaint. They don’t really have an option, considering their current location. They need to get back to the cabin to treat the wounds inflicted, and they can’t get there unless Kenobi is up and about. “Which way to the cabin, you think?” he asks, adjusting his weight when the older man reaches out to balance himself on Anakin’s shoulder. Obi-Wan’s legs are shaking; he looks ready to topple over should the breeze get too strong. The woods, before a cocoon of warmth and safety, suddenly seem hostile and cold.

“Best to keep away from the road,” Kenobi says, “in case our attacker has lingered. This way.”

He leans heavily on Anakin as they trudge through the underbrush, the return trip taken at a much slower pace than journey out had been. Between playing Obi-Wan’s crutch, carrying Threepio’s not insignificant weight, and the fucking he’d received earlier, Anakin is shaking nearly as bad as his partner by the time they reach the cabin. The adrenaline dumped into his veins during the attack is quickly drying up. He’s crashing, they both are, and he needs to get Obi-Wan in the house and settled before shock has fully settled upon the both of them.

Leaving Threepio on his bed in the living area for now, Artoo continuing to hover over him, Anakin attempts to guide Obi-Wan upstairs to the small first aid kit kept under the sink in their bathroom. He’s mentally going over what it’s going to take to get them both up the stairs when Kenobi digs his feet in, bringing them both to a jarring halt at their base.

“No,” he wheezes, pulling Anakin down the hall in the other direction. “This way.”

Allowing Obi-Wan to direct them, Anakin helps the man along until they stop in front of the basement door. That fear is creeping up again as Kenobi fumbles for the key around his neck, his hands shaking too badly to even get a decent drip. Anakin still hasn’t been down in the basement, doesn’t know what to expect, but he sure as hell doesn’t want to be going down there now. Still, he leans Obi-Wan against the wall, slipping the chain from around the man’s neck and sliding the key into the lock. His own hands tremble only marginally less.

“Let’s go,” Kenobi hisses, and Anakin slings the arm on the man’s uninjured side around his shoulders to help him down the stairs.

He doesn’t want to go down in the basement, but there’s nothing to be done about it now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Art Things!  
> [ Negotiation Photoset ](http://aedd-gynvael-art.tumblr.com/post/157899261017) by aedd-gynvael-art  
> [ Collared ](http://inheavenlygrass.tumblr.com/post/157627187777) by InHeavenlyGrass


	25. Twenty-Five

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay on this chapter. It wasn't cooperating, which is also why it's so short. The next one will make up for it, promise.

"Ouch!" Obi-Wan yelps, flinching away from Anakin's touch. "Can't you be a bit gentler with that thing?"

Anakin rolls his eyes, tightening his grip on Obi-Wan's arm as he resumes dabbing the bullet wound in his shoulder with antiseptic. He might be a bit more compassionate to his partner's plight if this were not the fourth time Obi-Wan has complained about his handling. Anakin briefly wonders what the good people of Coruscant would think if they knew their most notorious predator is actually an enormous crybaby. "Would you rather get an infection? I don't think gangrene is going to do either of us any favors when there's a crazy gunman that apparently knows where we live."

"I still think you should have removed the bullet," Obi-Wan pouts, dragging up another argument when he can't come up with a proper counter to Anakin's.

"Despite what everybody on TV tells you, removing a bullet is a pretty stupid thing to do," Anakin huffs, setting aside the rag he was using and reaching for a needle to start sewing the wound closed. They don't have surgical thread—or regular thread for that matter—so he's doused some dental floss in alcohol and threaded the needle with that. "It's like... the cork in a wine bottle. You don't know what kind of pressure it's keeping trapped in. It could be pressing up against an artery or something, and you could bleed out if I mess with it."

"You learn all this from your time on the Force?" Obi-Wan asks, incredulous.

Anakin shrugs. "I watch a lot of crime shows, have a lot of spare time, and know how to work google."

"Fair enough."

Pressing the needle through torn ends of flesh, Anakin hears Obi-Wan's pained hiss. He tries to be careful, to get the stitches done as quickly as possible, but he doesn't have any real medical experience. It's sloppy, but serviceable; Anakin hasn't sewn much of anything since his mother taught him how as a child. At least Obi-Wan manages to sit still through the process, likely knowing better than to wiggle any more than necessary. When Anakin deems the wound closed enough, he ties off the thread and snips the excess with a pair of scissors he'd found in the first aid kid. Bandages are applied, taped down, and Anakin smooths them down before offering Obi-Wan a relieved smile. "Done," he says, leaning up to press a gentle kiss to the man's lips.

"Thank stars," Kenobi mutters, reaching up to trace the edge of the bandages with curious fingers. Anakin has to fight the urge to slap his bloody fingers away from the clean material, instead setting about sorting used supplies and packing away what's still good. They’ll need to take it upstairs to tend to Threepio when they’re done down here. While he hadn’t gotten a very good look at the dog’s wound, it didn’t appear severe enough to require a vet trip. They should just be able to clean and bandage it. It’s best, in Anakin’s opinion, for them to avoid splitting up when there’s a gunman on the loose.

"This place is fucking creepy," Anakin mumbles when he’s done packing the bandages. He's done his best to ignore their surroundings so far, but now that Obi-Wan is no longer bleeding out under his hands, it's becoming harder and harder not to inspect the room.

The area around the base of the stairs appears to have the same qualities of a typical basement. The water heater and furnace are tucked against one wall, easily accessible without having to move too far into the room. The other wall hold rows of shelves, overcrowded with dusty yard equipment and boxes full of long-forgotten holiday decorations. Beyond that, however, is... exactly what you might expect a serial killer's lair to look like.

The shelves here hold knives, surgical equipment, and an assortment of other menacing objects that gleam in the low light. At the center if the room is a low-laying metal table, on which Obi-Wan is currently sitting. Anakin isn't sure how the man has managed to appear unbothered as he sits in the same place he creates his grotesque works of art. Just looking at the tie-downs attached to each leg is enough to raise Anakin’s hair on end, let alone in association with the dark stains that spatter the floor. He doesn’t mind Kenobi restraining him on occasion, but there is something distinctly unappealing about the thought of being that helpless down here. Maybe it’s just the knowledge of what happened to this table’s prior occupants; maybe it’s a suspicion that, if Obi-Wan ever had gotten him on this table, Anakin might not have left it in one piece.

“Were you expecting something else?” Kenobi asks, watching as Anakin takes a pair of scissors to his ruined shirt and creates a makeshift sling with the strips. Better that he not jostle the shoulder too much until he begins to heal a bit.

“Not really, but it wouldn’t kill you to be less… stereotypical. This is like a murderer’s lair straight out of a horror flick. There’s a drain in the floor and everything.”

Obi-Wan huffs. “There’s a reason for that, you know. It’s convenient, and far cleaner than trying to do everything in the same place you took your victim. Too much risk of interruption, out in the wild.”

“I didn’t really want to know,” Anakin sighs, reaching out to help Obi-Wan off the table. “Come on, I still need to clean up Threepio.”

* * *

 

Obi-Wan settles on the couch, accepting Threepio when Anakin lifts him up to lay beside his owner. The dog rests his head in Obi-Wan's lap, tail wagging lazily as Obi-Wan absently scratches at him with his good arm. Artoo stays in the dog bed, watching on attentively. Considering he already had something of a protective streak, Anakin has a feeling that he's going to be a handful after the trauma of the afternoon.

While they were down in the basement, Artoo had already started into cleaning up Threepio’s wounded side. Perhaps not the most sanitary of methods, but effective enough that it only takes Anakin a few minutes with a damp cloth to rid the dog’s golden fur of the remaining dried blood. Just as he thought, the wound is only a graze. It may scar when it heals, but Anakin considers a bald spot better than any permanent injury. Obi-Wan keeps the dog calm while Anakin disinfects and bandages the wound, talking to him and petting him liberally. Threepio whines and cries through the whole process, the noise tugging at Anakin’s heartstrings, but trusts his owners enough not to lash out despite the discomfort handling causes. By the time they’re done, he’s quieted. Obi-Wan continues to pet and praise him, and Artoo joins them on the couch as soon as there’s space available.

Anakin wanders over to their collage on the wall, taking in the information they've gathered already. If there was any doubt before as to the identity of their copycat killer as a cop, the attack in the woods has cleared it away. Anakin knows the sound of a service pistol discharging, having had to fire his own weapon a few times in the field. Fifteen rounds in the clip—more than the average handgun—allowed their shooter a better chance at hitting them. It’s lucky they only sustained the injuries they did, all things considered.

Still, his knowledge of the weapon narrows down the lists of suspects; there are only so many people with enough knowledge and access to information on the Negotiator case to recreate Obi-Wan's style to the extent that they have. Furthermore, the altercation with Quinlan that Obi-Wan spoke about has further removed players from the table. Anyone working the task force under Vos would be too heavily monitored to get away with such a bold move. The higher-ups wouldn’t dare risk a harassment lawsuit if they continued to poke around Quin’s prime subject. Any sign that they were even looking in Kenobi's direction after their detective's behavior would have led to swift retribution. Therefore, their culprit has to be someone who's been on the task force since before Quin began to suspect Kenobi—before Anakin went missing, even.

It's not a particularly long list, when he mentally composes it. Most people who get assigned to the Negotiator case are hesitant to leave it. While it's an agonizing case, a perpetual dark smear on any cop's record, the glory should you solve it would be enough to send a career path skyrocketing. The only officers on the Force to ever willingly leave it are— And like that, it feels like everything falls into place. Like that moment at Obi-Wan's kitchen table when he finally put all the pieces together, the veil of mystery falls and he's fumbling for the collage, rearranging the pictures as he thinks. A single piece of paper is added to the wall: a name scrawled in large, sloppy letters.

Pong Krell.

Anakin grins, stepping away to allow Obi-Wan a view of the wall, and watches as his brow furrows with distaste. "Krell?" He scoffs. "Seriously? You believe that buffoon capable of this?"

"It makes sense!" Anakin is quick to argue. He knows he’s right about this, no matter how ridiculous Obi-Wan may find it. "When he stepped down from the case, he was humiliated! His career wasn't going anywhere with that stain on his record. But if he was to build up the case—to increase the public's fear with all those killings outside the routine—before single-handedly catching the dreaded Negotiator? He'd be a hero! He'd be on the fast track up the chain of command. Krell didn't even have to do any of the real work; Quinlan already had the perfect case against you before he slipped up."

"Except that he tried to kill me," Obi-Wan drawls, shrugging his wounded shoulder and winces with the movement. "If he was trying to bring me in alive, he certainly didn't show it."

Anakin shakes his head vehemently. "No, he was trying to kill me. You pushed me out of the way; it was an accident that he hit you."

"Even so, why would he try to kill you? Why not bring us both in?"

"Again, reputation. Prestige. He could easily have made it look like you killed me, and no one would believe you if you said otherwise. Everyone probably thinks I’m already dead anyways, so he wouldn’t have anything to lose by just getting rid of me. That way he wouldn’t have to share the spotlight with the hero detective back from the dead, and is there anything more respected in the police world than a cop finally catching a cop killer?"

Obi-Wan sighs, leaning back into the couch and smoothing a hand down Threepio's back. The dog snuffles contentedly, taking their current predicament much better than Anakin though he would, really. "I suppose this means he'll be back, then? Do you think he’ll include anyone else in this plan of his?" Anakin shrugs. "Probably not. Krell isn't the type to share credit; it's unlikely he'll play this by the book and call anybody else in." "We'll have to be ready, then."

“We will be,” Anakin declares. Whatever Krell decides to throw at them next—they will be ready. He won’t allow anyone to harm his family again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> While we were away, a lot of art was done for this fic!
> 
> [Kisses](http://inheavenlygrass.tumblr.com/post/159213331102) by InHeavenlyGrass  
> Negotiation Aesthetics by BigWolfPup  
> [Negotiation Styleframes](http://anibun-skywalker.tumblr.com/post/158532599192) by BigWolfPup (they did these for a school project! That's so cool!!!)  
> [Ch3 Tie Scene](http://inheavenlygrass.tumblr.com/post/158211041282) by InHeavenlyGrass
> 
> Thank you so much, guys! And thank all of you for your patience.


	26. Twenty-Six

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so behind on responding to your comments I promise i'll get to them eventually.

“What did I ever do to that woman…?” Obi-Wan grumbles, taking another large bite of the heavily frosted pastry in his hand while he engages in a staring match with Miss Tii. The old woman has been glaring daggers at Kenobi since she spotted Anakin entering the café at his side, treating the older man with blatant disdain that, from Obi-Wan’s point of view, must appear to be without cause. “I’ve been coming here since I was a boy; I have no idea what I could have done to make her so cross with me!”

Anakin feels his stomach churn uncomfortably as Obi-Wan finally averts his eyes, even the sight of icing smeared in the hair of his beard from his pastry not enough to raise Anakin’s spirits. His own breakfast remains nearly untouched on his plate, guilt chasing away what appetite he might have otherwise had. Coming to Tii’s Teahouse for breakfast when they discovered their pantry disappointingly bare this morning had been a mistake; he should have told Obi-Wan to take them somewhere else.

“I think it might be my fault,” he mumbles, unable to meet Obi-Wan’s eyes as he does so.

“What makes you say that? You’ve barely met the woman.”

Fidgeting with the sleeves of the light jacket he’d donned upon departing the cabin, Anakin forces himself to explain. “After… After we fought over Hardeen, I ran off, yeah?” He sputters, feeling his cheeks burn with shame. “And I, um, came here for breakfast. She saw—saw my eye. Told me that if I ever needed help, I could reach out to her…”

When he does risk a glance up, the thunderous expression on Obi-Wan’s face is enough to make him wish that he hadn’t said anything. The older man drops the last bit of pastry back onto his plate, leaning back in his chair and crossing his arms as the scowl he’d previously aimed at Tii finds a new target in Anakin. “So what you’re telling me,” he says, and despite the low volume of his words, his tone is sharp enough to draw the attention of a few other patrons and Miss Tii herself, “is that half of Naboo undoubtedly now thinks that I _beat_ you. Is that right, Anakin?”

The younger man flinches, dropping his eyes again and curling in on himself as he answers. “Y-yes…” What was previously just discomfort has now grown into full-blown nausea, threatening to return what little Anakin had managed to get down to his plate if they don’t remove themselves from the center of attention soon.

“Wonderful,” Obi-Wan snarls, pushing abruptly out of his chair and pulling his own overcoat from where it’s been hanging on the seatback. “Let’s go.”

Anakin is quick to scramble to his feet, eager to be away from the heavy gazes that follow them as they make for the exit—that silently judge when Obi-Wan wraps a firm hand around Anakin’s forearm, hauling him along when the younger isn’t going fast enough for his liking.

“—just what we needed—” he hears the man mutter as Obi-Wan throws open the car’s passenger side door, depositing Anakin roughly inside. He only just manages to pull his feet clear before Kenobi slams the door behind him. If Obi-Wan is truly concerned about his reputation with the townspeople, he’s probably blowing any chance he might have had to salvage it with how he’s behaving. “—just wanted to have a nice meal—”

Anakin tries not to dwell on the man’s upset as Kenobi starts up the car, peeling out the parking lot and beginning the trip back to the cabin. Logically, he knows that Obi-Wan’s anger is not entirely his fault. The man is still healing from their encounter with Krell in the woods, his shoulder a constant ache as flesh knits itself back together around the bullet lodged beneath his skin. Over-the-counter medication can only take off so much of the edge, and the lingering pain has left him testier than usual.

On top of that is the anticipation of Detective Krell’s next move. They’ve seen neither hide nor hair of the man since their encounter with him the previous week, leaving both men in a perpetual state of hyperawareness—as though their pursuer will strike the moment either of them let their guard down. Neither has left the house since the attack before this morning, other than to let the dogs out. Obi-Wan has had a colleague looking after his classes, citing a family emergency for his absence. Anakin has spent his free time scouting all the possible weak points in the cabin’s defenses and working to rectify them. The windows in the unused bedroom have been boarded up, the empty bed frames pushed in front of them to provide an additional obstacle to any intruder. The windows downstairs remain locked at all times, their latches closely monitored for any signs of tampering. Even the dogs are on edge, aware that something is causing their owners distress.

Their combined anxiety is a pot prepared to boil over.

The tension in Obi-Wan’s shoulders begins to unwind the further they get from town, but Anakin knows that his lover’s thoughts are still occupied by the events at Tii’s café. Obi-Wan has, over the course of years, carefully cultivated a flawless reputation with the populations of both Coruscant and Naboo. This reputation is an important part of his disguise—of the impeccable camouflage that hides the truth of him from the very people who know him best. They see what they want to see: the handsome, mild-mannered professor, willfully ignorant to the monster that lurks just behind his eyes. Anakin’s actions when he fled have, however inadvertently, threatened that delicate veil of anonymity. People will be paying attention now, looking for something amiss, just like they had at the café earlier. They’ll have to be more careful in the future; they can’t make any more rash decisions.

By the time they pull into the driveway, Anakin has decided of a plan of attack. First he’s going to apologize to Obi-Wan. The man deserves an honest apology, after everything he’s been put through in the last week or so. Once that’s done, perhaps he’d want to join Anakin in another lap around the cabin to secure their perimeter. There’s no such thing as too safe, when it comes to a madman out for their blood, and the reassurance of their security here in their home might help to soothe some of Kenobi’s lingering worries.

They are both too lost in thought to fully realize that there is something _off_ until it’s far too late. Obi-Wan throws open the front door, the key to its lock still on the chain around his neck, and Anakin follows him into the dark house. It’s only when he’s well past the entryway, when he catches the flash of movement in the corner of his eye, that he has the sickening realization of, _we locked that door before we left._

He isn’t given the chance to fully turn to face his attacker, nor to call out to Obi-Wan. Anakin is bowled off his feet by something much larger than himself, breath rushing from his lungs when that weight lands atop him. He flails desperately to get out from under his attacker, but his attention is divided between the fight and struggling for air.

There is no exchange of witty banter; there is no villain’s monologue. They both know why they’re here. Krell—and he has no doubt that this is Krell, the man’s unsettlingly froglike appearance distinguishable even in the dim lighting—take full advance of this weakness, laying into Anakin with his fists. He feels skin split beneath the assault, feels his nose break with a particularly well-aimed punch. Hot blood erupts from it, making it all the more difficult to catch his breath. For a brief moment, Anakin panics. For a brief moment, he thinks Krell is actually going to succeed in killing him.

Then Kenobi is there, a fierce snarl ripping from the man’s chest as he grabs Krell around the neck, hauling him of his young lover to engage him instead. Anakin takes advantage of his newfound freedom to roll over onto his hands and knees, spitting the blood that’s filled his mouth onto the floor and gasping for breath. He shakes with the adrenaline that’s poured into his bloodstream, an urge to flee this place rearing its head for the first time in months. To get away from Krell, and Obi-Wan, and the danger they represent.

But he hears the commotion coming from the sitting room, hears the dogs barking from wherever they’ve been locked away upstairs. Anakin cannot see what is happening within from his current position, but he can hear the grunts and groans of a brawl—the crash of bodies colliding with furniture. That urge for flight is chased away when he hears Obi-Wan let out a pained whimper, the desire to protect his partner strong enough to haul Anakin to his feet. While Obi-Wan has the distinct advantage of being needed alive, there is a still a great deal of damage that Krell can do in the name of so-called self-defense. On top of it all, Obi-Wan is already injured. Krell will know that—he’ll use it to further his own advantage. If they’re going to get out of this in something close to one piece, Anakin needs to get back into the fight. He needs to protect Obi-Wan; he’d promised he wouldn’t let anything happen to him.

Stumbling into the kitchen, Anakin scans the countertops for some kind of feasible weapon. While he and Kenobi might have been able to take Krell in a bare-fisted brawl with both men at their full strength, the injuries they’ve accrued have taken that edge from them. The pots in the sinks are too large an ungainly to properly wield, the meat cleaver too small to do any significant damage. Anakin’s eyes fall upon the knife block on the counter and the neat row of handles that protrude from it.

Snatching a knife from the block, Anakin sweeps from the kitchen and into the sitting room to come to Obi-Wan’s aid. He arrives in time to find Obi-Wan on his back, one of Krell’s hands around his throat while the other digs mercilessly into the still-healing bullet wound. Bright crimson stains the cream of his sweater, only slightly redder than the man’s face as he strains for breath around the restriction of Krell’s palm.

Anakin doesn’t think twice before he stalks forward, light on his feet and _angry_ in a way he hasn’t been since he was a nine year-old boy learning of the death of his beloved mother. He isn’t prepared to lose another person dear to him to selfishness and greed of humanity; this time, Anakin is strong enough to do something about it.

The knife sinks between Pong Krell’s ribs with an ease Anakin almost hasn’t expected. Krell chokes, grip loosening from around Obi-Wan’s throat, glancing back over his shoulder in shock. As though he’d forgotten all about Anakin; as though he never expected him to make such a bold move. Blood seeps from around the edges of the knife, drip-dropping onto Obi-Wan’s ruined shirt. Already Anakin can see the metaphorical light fading from Krell’s eyes, the injury grievous enough that there is no hope for his survival.

He doesn’t realize he hadn’t let go of the knife’s handle until Kenobi heaves Krell off him with a powerful shove. The momentum rocks the man’s body away from him, pulling the blade loose from the wounds as it goes. Now free from obstruction, fresh blood pours freely from the hole in Krell’s chest, speeding along his inevitable demise. Anakin is helpless but to stare at it, watching the puddle grow, staining the rug and hardwood crimson, as the realization hits him.

He just killed a man.

Anakin Skywalker, Police Detective, just stabbed a knife through a former coworker’s chest, bring his career and his life to an untimely end. The thought is enough to make himself ill, glancing down at his hands only intensifying the sensation. They, too, are stained with blood, the knife still gripped in white knuckles and dripping onto the floor. Anakin flings the weapon away, suddenly desperate to get it as far from him as possible.

He just killed a man.

The thought runs in his head on repeat until a hand settles on his shoulder, startling him out of the trance. He hadn’t heard Obi-Wan get up, but the man stands before him now. The expression on his face is nothing short of rapturous, like a religious zealot catching a glimpse of their revered god. Anakin hates it and loves it in turn. Hates it because he has just killed a man, just shed blood in the name of another who will shed more in turn; loves it because he has just killed a man, and Obi-Wan is not repulsed by the action. Obi-Wan is alive and well and _awed_ by the crimson that coats Anakin’s hands.

“My love,” Obi-Wan murmurs, stepping into his space, cupping Anakin’s face. For once, his hands are cleaner than Anakin’s own. His thumbs smudge away the tears that Anakin hadn’t realized he was shedding. “I am so very proud of you.”

A whine breaks loose from Anakin’s throat when Obi-Wan draws him closer, lets himself be folded against the man’s chest until he can hear the beating of Kenobi’s heart under his ear. For all the danger, Obi-Wan is alive. Damaged anew, but alive, and as smitten as ever with the young lover he’s claimed as his own.

Anakin allows the warm feeling of Obi-Wan’s acceptance, his affection, to fuel him as Kenobi leads him up into the bathroom; as Obi-Wan sinks to his knees beneath the spray, taking Anakin into his mouth as the warm water washes away the evidence of their indiscretion; until the moment he’s tucked beneath the blankets of the bed, Obi-Wan smoothing back his hair and planting a gentle kiss to his forehead before ordering Anakin to get some rest.

For a moment, he doesn’t think he’ll be able to. Then his head hits the pillow, and the dogs curl up beside him, and Anakin is asleep between one breath and the next.


	27. Twenty-Seven

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Surprise double update because I don't feel like waiting until Tuesday as I intended to post this

**PRESENT**

Luke squeals when Anakin blows raspberries into his belly, thrashing tiny limbs in delight at the attention. His sister watches on from the other side of him, perpetually unimpressed with her brother and father’s antics. She’ll have bouts of playfulness of occasion, Anakin has learned, but it will be on her own terms.

The last three weeks have been… Well, he wouldn’t say they’ve been the best three weeks of his life. The kids are great, and it’s nice to have company beyond Obi-Wan and Ahsoka, but coming off the high of his partner’s company is something that’s been harder than expected. At the time, it hadn’t really seemed like there was anything wrong with his situation. At first, yes, there was stress, but by the time he and Kenobi had become lovers, he’d grown to enjoy his stay in the cabin and his place at Obi-Wan’s side.

This, according to the Organas and the psychiatrist that comes by the house every third day, is the heart of the problem. What he’d been through wasn’t normal, and wasn’t healthy. He’d fallen for Obi-Wan because it was that or risk physical harm to himself. He didn’t have other options—he couldn’t say no. Some days Anakin can see it; other days he finds himself missing Obi-Wan too much to care. The longer he stays away, however, the less and less those latter days come around.

The easiest days are those like today, when Bail and Breha both have to work and leave him to watch the children. Bail had been rather apprehensive about leaving Anakin alone with them the first time, but Breha strong-armed him into allowing it, going on about parental urges and instincts. When they’d returned and the kids were still in one piece, dozing on the rug in their nursery with their father, Anakin had been dubbed honorary babysitter.

“Anakin,” Breha calls, popping her head into the room as she puts the finishing touches on her latest elaborate hairstyle, “I’m heading out in just a moment, but Bail will be back in just a little while, alright?”

“Yes, ma'am. We’ll be here,” he replies, returning his attention to the children. Leia has used his brief distraction to begin dragging herself away. The twins’ mobility had begun to increase in the last few weeks, to both the distress and delight of their assorted guardians. Anakin reaches out, catching hold of her tiny legs and dragging her carefully back to where she belongs. She protests this with a series of unhappy burbling noises, but Anakin pays it no mind.

With Leia returned safely to the center of the rug, her brother apparently beginning to doze off, Anakin listens to the sounds of Breha’s heels on the stairs as she makes her way down to the lower level. He hadn’t seen them, but they’re undoubtedly sensible and very stylish. They click on the hardwood floor as she walks toward the front door, and Anakin is just about to turn his attention away from tracking her progress when he hears the doorbell ring. They aren’t expecting guests—all visits must be cleared with the officers parked at the front gate—which makes this an anomaly. If the last year has taught Anakin anything, it’s that anomalies are not to be trusted.

“Oh, hello, Officer,” Breha greets, pleasant as she always is with the various law enforcement officials who come and go. There is apparently still debate over what is to be done with Anakin, leaving everything in a state of limbo until somebody steps up to make the decision. “I’m sorry, I wasn’t aware you would be coming by.”

“It wasn’t pre-arranged,” a second voice says, and Anakin feels his blood freeze in his veins as its distinct accent drifts through the open nursery door. “We’ve been having some trouble with Anakin’s tracking anklet; it seems to be malfunctioning. The precinct just sent me over to check on it and make sure it hasn’t accidentally been damaged.”

Anakin returns the twins to their cribs as quickly as he dare, not wanting to alarm them. Still, he thinks they can sense his anxiety. Luke has awoken and turned a magnificent shade of red that he only gets when he’s stressed. He coos to them briefly, hoping to keep them quiet, but they only settle a bit. It will have to be enough.

Once they’re safely tucked away, he walks from the nursery and into the master bedroom. He supposes that Organas believe him to have not noticed the small handgun they keep in the nightstand, as he rarely ever had reason to dig around in it. He has, however, and he retrieves it now. A precursory check reveals the weapon to be loaded, and Anakin tucks the gun into the waistband of his pajama pants before he slips out into the hall. It’s a smaller caliber than his old service pistol, but it will have to do. Thank the stars for pragmatic, successful lawyers with enemies.

The conversation in the foyer has, meanwhile, continued. Breha happily chatters away about her schedule with their visitor, ever the social butterfly, while Anakin creeps over to the top of the stairs. The officer’s familiar voice is both siren’s song and warning siren.

A loose floorboard at the top of the stairs creaks beneath his weight, alerting the company below to his presence. They turn to face him, Breha flashing him a fond smile while the man just behind shares over her shoulder as though he is starving and has caught his first sight of a feast. The expression is not one he hasn’t seen before, but it seems far more unsettling in the context of the Organas’ grand estate.

“Oh, Anakin, there you are,” Breha calls. “I was just on my way out, but Officer Jinn here needs to take a look at your anklet. Apparently they’re having some problems with it.”

Anakin licks at dried lips and forces himself not to hesitate, to feign casual disinterest, when he replies. “Yeah, ok.” Any sign that anything is out of the norm and Breha might not leave. She can’t stay here, not with him in the house. “I, uh, knocked it in shower earlier. That might have been it.”

“You should be more careful,” she chides, and Anakin nearly heaves a sigh of relief when she steps out of the officer’s reach, walking over to the coat rack by the door and collecting her jacket. “I’m heading out; Bail will be back shortly. Be good.”

“Always am,” Anakin cheekily replies, but the smile and jaunty wave he offers both die as soon as the door closes behind her. His eyes dart back toward their guest, and Anakin can feel his heart in his throat.

The officer steps toward the stairs, taking off his cap and dropping it to the floor with little care. “Hello, dear one,” Obi-Wan greets when he reaches the bottom step, flashing Anakin a devastating smile. “It’s been too long.”

In the three weeks that have passed, Obi-Wan has only made minor adjustments to his appearance. He’s cut his hair shorter and shaved off his beard, but even that is enough that he looks quite different from the man pictured in wanted posters across town. Younger, brighter, changed enough. In an officer’s uniform (Anakin doesn’t want to think about how he probably got it), he is virtually unrecognizable to anyone but those closest to him. Those that would recognize the crinkle of his brow and the line of his jaw, the strange glimmer in his blue eyes.

“What?” He says when Anakin fails to respond. “No greeting for your fearless rescuer?”

He’s up to the third step when Anakin draws the gun.

There is a moment of perfect stillness between them, surprise from both of them that he’s pulled the weapon; a small part of him had been convinced that he wouldn’t be able to. His hands shake as he aims at Kenobi, and the friendly smile has dropped from the man’s face.

“D-don’t come any closer,” Anakin demands when Obi-Wan takes another step, thrusting the gun out in threat.

Kenobi stills for a moment, head cocking to the side as he studies the man before him. Anakin hates that look; it feels as though Obi-Wan is seeing right through him. “Are you going to shoot me, Anakin?” He asks, and takes another slow, deliberate step. And another. And Anakin finds himself humiliatingly unable to pull the trigger as Obi-Wan draws nearer. Instead he stumbles backwards with each of the man’s steps forward, unable to fire and unwilling to flee. He is hesitant to turn his back on Kenobi, aware of the danger it presents; You never turn your back on a predator. “What’ve they told you about me? That I’m a monster? That I hurt you? That I never truly loved you?”

 _Yes_ , is the answer to all of those things, but Anakin can’t bring himself to voice it. _That you used me, that you broke me, that what I feel is a lie that you made me believe._

Anakin has imagined this reunion a hundred times. Sometimes he rushes into Obi-Wan’s arms, touches him and kisses him. In those fantasies, he lets Obi-Wan have him on the Organa’s bed, panting and moaning the man’s name as he lays claim Anakin all over again. Sometimes he takes this gun and puts a bullet through Obi-Wan’s heart in retaliation for everything this man has stolen from him. In those fantasies he is praised as a hero for slaying this monster of his past, freed from the drug of Obi-Wan’s influence and finally able to move forward with his life. Now, he finds himself unable to do either—stalled to inaction by his own inner turmoil. His brain says one thing; his heart says another.

When Obi-Wan hits the top step, Anakin runs.

He knows the layout of the house better than Obi-Wan, could probably find some creative path to get away if he wanted, but his brain short-circuits when he passes a child’s toy on the floor.

The twins. He can’t leave them on their own—not with Obi-Wan in the house. Anakin doesn’t think Kenobi the type to take his frustration out on defenseless children, but there really is no telling. He’d obviously been expecting a more pleasant reunion, and being held at gunpoint by the object of his desire has undoubtedly tried his patience.

Anakin rounds the corner into the master bedroom, attempting to throw the door closed behind him, but Obi-Wan is already there. His weight hits the door, throwing it open and sending Anakin stumbling back. The gun slips from his grip—thumps against the rug. His and Kenobi’s eyes meet for the barest moment before they both lunge for the weapon. The next few moments are a blur, grappling for the weapon, and Anakin briefly thinks he might have it before—

_Crack!_

The shot rings out, and pain burns down Anakin’s thigh. He yelps, releasing the gun and grasping for the wound, while Obi-Wan snatches the weapon away and puts distance between them. It is, when Anakin dares to look down, not nearly as bad as it might have been. A graze down the outside of his thigh, deep enough to draw blood but shallow enough that he shouldn’t suffer any permanent damage. Dumb luck, really, and Anakin thanks the on looking gods for that.

In the nursery, the twins have started to scream, the shot combined with the earlier ruckus disturbing what little calm Anakin had managed to instill in them before he first left the room. Their cries draw Obi-Wan’s attention from Anakin. Another day he might have stayed and fussed over the wound, smothering Anakin with his affections in attempt to drive the pain from his mind; today, he gives Anakin only a cursory glance before he steps toward the door that connects the master bedroom to the nursery. As far as Kenobi is concerned, Anakin brought this injury upon himself when he tried to run from him. The gun is still in his hand,

“No,” Anakin hears himself say. “No, no, no, no. Obi-Wan, don't—” But of course the man shows little regard for his words. Kenobi slips into  the nursery, and for a moment there is only the sounds of the children’s crying before that, too, stops.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please forgive me for this I promise I'm not this cruel you just gotta trust me


	28. Twenty-Eight

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm still not thrilled with this chapter, but whatever. Good enough.
> 
> My thanks to [Kurenaino](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Kurenaino/pseuds/Kurenaino) for letting me bounce ideas off you.
> 
> By the way, have you read [Genesis](http://archiveofourown.org/works/10862250) yet? It's an exploration of Obi-Wan's loves and losses before he met Anakin Skywalker. Kurenaino wrote it, and it's wonderful if you want to read more about Obi-Wan descent into madness.

**Past**

There are moments in life that bring a situation into full clarity—that tear down the curtain and reveal who you were, who you are. The reality of what you’ve become comes crashing in; how far you’re willing to go laid out before you. Indisputable, irrefutable. Anakin Skywalker’s moment came when he stabbed a man through the chest with a kitchen knife and watched him bleed out across his living room floor.

It's cold in the basement; it's always cold in the basement. Anakin rubs at his goose-pimpled arms and allows his eyes to wander to the furnace against the wall. It seems strange that a room housing a furnace should always have such a chill. He can't help but wonder if it's more psychological than physical. As though the horrors of what have been done in this place have left a permanent scar. Some of his cop buddies used to believe things like that; Quin would never linger around crime scenes longer than he had to. While Anakin had always written it off as cheesy superstition in the past, that was before he began to spend his free time lingering on the cabin’s lowest floor.

Ever since Krell's death, Anakin has spent a great many nights haunting Kenobi’s kill room; prowling among the shadows around the perimeter of the room and examining Obi-Wan's many tools of the trade. Sometimes Kenobi joins him, explaining the purpose of each and every knife, every saw, every scalpel. Points them out and tells Anakin their histories—what he used to create his self-proclaimed masterpieces. Which tools took which lives, and how he felt when they did. Some nights, they’re not alone. Some night—most nights—Kenobi brings home some pretty little thing from Coruscant’s club scene; the weak or stupid separated from the herd of drunken partiers. Natural selection, Obi-Wan had once joked. He walks Anakin through the process, through of each drag of the knife. It makes him sick to hear the screams, to watch blood spill across the floor, but he has to see. Has to know what Kenobi is capable of doing—what _he’s_ willing to do.

His actions haunt him, Krell's death unrelentingly tagging at his heels. He doesn't regret everything he's done—doesn’t regret the blood he’s spilled, nor the lives that have been taken since. That's what scares him more than anything. That's what leaves him shuffling through the house on sleepless nights long after his partner has retreated to the bedroom, what causes him to spurn Obi-Wan’s every attempt at seduction, what drives him to haunt Kenobi's kill room as though the reminder of the man's monstrosity will reassure him of his own humanity.

He's taken life for Obi-Wan, now. Who’s to say what will Kenobi ask of him next?

Through the open basement and front doors, Anakin hears the crunch of tires on gravel over the dogs barking and the regular night sounds. Kenobi must have finally returned from prowling Coruscant's night life. The brake pads will need changing soon, Anakin can’t help but notice, hearing them squeal when Obi-Wan brings the car to a halt. With all the mileage Obi-Wan puts on the car, it is hardly surprising that it needs maintenance so often. If Kenobi can get him the parts during his next trip to Coruscant, Anakin can do the work himself. Maybe that could help settle the chaos in his mind.

The sound of a struggle is hardly alien to the Naboo night around their cabin, so Anakin doesn't bother to acknowledge the muffled shouting of whatever pretty thing Obi-Wan has selected as he drags them across the driveway and into the house. They all fight in the beginning, as Anakin himself had fought once upon a time. Instead he braces himself for another night at Obi-Wan’s side as the man begins to drag his victim down the stairs.

Obi-Wan is about halfway down by the time he notices Anakin’s presence. "Oh, there you are, dearest," Obi-Wan greets, adjusting his grip on his struggling victim before he finishes their descent into the basement.

His latest is a young, pretty thing—but then, most of them have been. They seem to be Kenobi's preferred type whenever they're available. This one has blue eyes and blonde hair that’s probably not natural, in a little black dress on the cheaper end of the price spectrum but still hugs her form in all the right places. Her makeup was probably flawless before she started struggling and crying. Now her lipstick is smeared from the gag in her mouth, mascara running down her cheeks with the tracks of her tears.

"What are you doing down here?"

Anakin shrugs weakly, turning back to the meticulously arranged rows of weaponry. "Just thinking, I guess," he sighs, reaching out to run a finger along the flat of a curved blade whose name he knows Obi-Wan told him once, but has since been forgotten. "Waiting for you to come home."

"You were, were you?" Kenobi asks, snagging a bit of rope to tie his prisoner to one of the shelves' support poles.

Anakin knows where Obi-Wan intends to take this from the moment he steps up behind him and into his space. His arms wrap around the younger man's waist; the wet heat of his breath, his lips on the skin just below the edge of the collar. He presses himself to Anakin's back, the tightness of his grip preventing him from protesting as much as he'd like. "Obi-Wan—" Anakin gasps, squirming when the man's hands slip under the hem of his shirt, his mouth biting and sucking what will be a livid bruise into his skin.

“Is this what you were waiting on?” the older man purrs.

When he starts to step backwards, Anakin has no choice but to move with him. He has a vague sense of where he's being directed, fear coiling like a snake in his gut. Surely Obi-Wan doesn't intend to—?

Obi-Wan suddenly slips around to the front of him, and Anakin yelps when the backs of his knees hit the edge of metal table—when another strong shove sends him backwards onto the cold surface. That fear constricts his chest, makes it difficult to breathe, strangles his words before he can force them out. All he can do is flail inelegantly as Obi-Wan crawls atop him, whining pitifully as he tries to communicate his distress. He doesn't like the sharp edge to Obi-Wan's eyes; for the first time in what feels like forever, he's frightened of what the man may do to him. Anakin has considered the possible consequences of Kenobi getting him on this table before. While he would like to trust the man to maintain control, Anakin isn’t stupid. He knows Obi-Wan has a tendency to get caught up in the moment.

But Obi-Wan is still shushing him, telling him everything will be fine, as he works on peeling Anakin’s shirt off. Anakin doesn't believe a word of it—has heard him say those same things to the other people he's put on this table. Hot tears sting his eyes and blur his vision as he shoves weakly at Obi-Wan's chest, attempting to push the man's off. When that fails he grabs at the he of his shirt, fighting to keep Kenobi from pulling it all the way off. All protest gets him is his wrists trapped in the vice of Obi-Wan's grip while the man cuts the shirt away with the pocket knife he usually carries. The only thought in Anakin’s mind is that this _needs to stop_.

It's the feeling of binding around his wrists that finally break him, send him spiraling to a fit of hysterics. He doesn’t mind Kenobi tying him down in a normal situation, but this is not their bedroom; these are not his cuffs. These bite into his wrists as he writhes against them, and his partner doesn’t seem to notice "Obi-Wan please, please stop." He hears himself sob, terror destroying the last of his composure. All he had left is begging.

Blessedly, it works, the man freezing above him as Kenobi abruptly comes back to himself. "Anakin," he breathes, taking in the man beneath him’s sorry state, and then he's fumbling for the restraints, clumsy as he undoes the ties. "Baby, I'm so sorry. I wasn't—I wouldn't—"

He slides out of Anakin's lap and off the table when he's done, backing away to put distance between them. Anakin has to take a moment to gather himself before he can sit up, rubbing at his tender wrists and wincing at the sting. He's trembling with residual fear, adrenaline still coursing through his bloodstream and making him jittery.

"I'll just... be upstairs," he hears Obi-Wan say, hears him berating himself as he ascends the steps. Anakin doesn't make to stop him; this had been too close a call for his liking.

Dropping his head in his hands, Anakin draws in a ragged breath. He's exhausted, but he doesn't think he's ready to go upstairs. He's not prepared to face Kenobi yet. This had been a close call—too close for comfort. Anakin knows things haven't been quite right between them since Krell. He's been withdrawn, reserved, his actions weighing heavily on his mind. It's not that he feels guilty for what he did to Krell, but rather that he doesn't. He should, shouldn't he?

"Are you ok?" A quiet voice asks interrupting Anakin's introspection and reminding him that they aren't alone. He startles, glancing down off the table at the woman tied to shelving.Right, Obi-Wan's latest. She’s wide-eyed, shaking with a fear Anakin knows intimately. At some point during their interlude, she seems to have worked the gag from her mouth.

"Oh, god," he sniffles, scrubbing at undoubtedly bloodshot eyes. "I'm so sorry; I totally forgot you were here."

She's looking at him with pity that feels like a knife to his gut. "It's ok," she replies. "I don't mind."

Yes, Anakin would imagine any stay of execution would be a welcome one. "Still, I'm sorry you had to see that."

"Do you, um, do you live here?" She asks, quite awkwardly. Understandable, considering their current situation. Early social development doesn’t prepare you for small talk with your abductor’s partner.

Anakin nods. "For the last few months, yeah. Obi-Wan, he, uh, he brought me here."

"I can't imagine what that's like," she says with a shudder.

“It’s hard,” Anakin hears himself confess. "Sometimes I think you guys get the better end of the deal.”

It's not something he's allowed himself to dwell on, but Krell's death has brought those old emotions he'd believed lost to Kenobi’s influence. "It's over quick for you. Fast, painless. But me? I have to wake up every day and live it all over again; watching pieces of myself crumble under the weight of him.

"I used to be a cop," he admits, his voice breaking. "I wanted to help people. Now look at me," he tugs at the collar around his neck, "I'm his fucking pet!"

"I guess we both have terrible taste in men," the woman says with a bitter smile. Anakin barks harsh laughter in return. Understatement of the century.

There is something cathartic about getting the thoughts off his chest that have been plaguing him since Krell's death—preaching them to an audience who might understand. While Obi-Wan has offered an ear before, he wouldn't be able to comprehend Anakin's feelings; he wouldn’t understand the conflict he feels at having the reality of how far he's fallen dragged out to where he can't avoid it anymore.

He killed a man, and he can't even bring himself to regret it.

"Can I get you anything? Water? Something to eat?"

"Would probably be too much to hope you'd untie me if I asked, right?" The woman asks with a rueful smile.

Anakin grimaces. "Sorry. I've been on the receiving end of temper before; I'd rather avoid a repeat performance."

"Fair enough," she sighs. "You're the one that has to live with him. A glass of water would be nice, if you don't mind."

With a nod, Anakin climbs off the table and begins the trek upstairs. He's almost reached the top when Obi-Wan begins making his way back down; their sides brush as they make to pass in the tight space, and Obi-Wan catches hold of him before he can get away.

"Hey," he murmurs, pulling Anakin to a halt. Lit by the soft glow of the hall light above, Anakin is struck all over again by how beautiful Kenobi is. The blue-grey of his eyes, the auburn hair that falls into them. It’s always so neat when he leaves the house in the morning; only Anakin gets to see it in such disarray. The intimacy of this small detail nearly takes his breath away. "I'm sorry, Anakin. I didn't mean to let things get out of hand."

"It's ok," Anakin replies, and he's disgusted to realize that he means it. After what just happened, he has already forgiven Obi-Wan. He shrugs out of the man's grip, returns to his journey up the stairs, stomach tying itself in knots. He would do anything for Obi-Wan Kenobi, he realizes in that moment. He would kill again, if it was needed to protect this; he would do anything Obi-Wan asked.

He just wonders how much of himself will be left by the time Kenobi is finally done with him.


	29. Twenty-Nine

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whoops sorry for the massive gap between updates, if you follow my [Tumblr](http://glare-gryphon.tumblr.com/) or checked out my Obikin Week Fic [Evermore](http://archiveofourown.org/works/11553309), you may have heard that I've had a lot of big, sudden life changes here in the last few weeks. I'm still waiting for the dust to settle and trying to get back into the routine.

“Come on, slowpokes!” Ahsoka calls as she scrambles up the trail ahead of Anakin and Obi-Wan. “We haven’t got all day!”

“We do, actually,” Obi-Wan mutters, pausing to lean back against a tree just off the trail and catch his breath. It’s barely past noon, according to the watch on Obi-Wan’s wrist, and Ahsoka has assured them that the hike wouldn’t take more than an hour or two. However, the steep, uphill slope to Ahsoka’s preferred overlook is taking far more out of the both of them than Anakin had expected. He hadn’t realized just how out of shape he’d fallen during his not-quite captivity until they’d started this journey. Perhaps he should try and pick up something of a workout routine. He can’t exactly go jogging in the park anymore, but little things like sit-ups and push-ups are still manageable.

The beginnings of summer and the ending of the school year brought with it the return of their unwitting accomplice. Ahsoka had turned up on their doorstep unannounced, breaking into the cabin while they slept and attempting to surprise the couple with breakfast in bed. Her plan had backfired as dramatically as only well-laid plots can. Instead of waking to the smell of pancakes and bacon, as had been the teen’s intention, they’d woken to the dogs whining in concern, the fire alarm screeching, and a thick black smoke filling up the entirety of the lower floor.

They ate bowls of cold cereal on the steps of the front porch while they waited for the house to air out, Ahsoka apologizing furiously for the mishap between bites of the sugary concoction that is Anakin’s preferred brand. Obi-Wan hadn’t cared, fonder of her than he would ever admit, and Anakin had simply been grateful for company not destined for a future as a gruesome art piece.

It was there that she’d brought up this particular outing, requesting their accompaniment to the lookout point she and Plo had found while hiking up the mountain a few years prior. “There’s supposed to be this big meteor shower coming up,” Ahsoka had said, eyes bright with excitement, “and we’d be able to see it perfectly from the lookout! Don’t you think it’d be so cool?”

“Wouldn’t you rather go with your father?” Obi-Wan had asked. “Or that friend of yours… Riyu, wasn’t it?”

“Riyu’s family is going on vacation this week,” Ahsoka said with a shrug, “and one of the women at Plo’s work is on maternity leave, so he’s working extra hours to help cover her shifts. Come on, guys! You can be all gross and sappy and romantic and I promise I won’t say a word about it!”

The offer is appealing, and Anakin glanced over at Obi-Wan for a verdict on the matter. He does, after all, the final word on any and all decisions made within their household. The man stared off into the distance and stroking thoughtfully at his beard, as though he was actually considering the pros and cons of spending a night beneath this stars with his makeshift family. Anakin knew it to be a farce, it’s not in Obi-Wan’s nature to deny Ahsoka anything she really wants, but the girl still chewed her lip in anticipation of Kenobi’s decision.

“I have some old camping gear in the basement. I suppose we could go and make a night of it,” he ceded, a wry smile curling his lips. “I haven’t been camping since I was just a boy.”

“Yes!” the girl shrieked, knocking her thankfully empty cereal bowl out of her lap when she lept upright, throwing one fist into the air in victory. “Oh my god, I have to tell Plo—”

Back on the trail, Anakin also takes a moment to rest as he watches Ahsoka slip on a slick patch of earth, not quite dry from the summer storm they’d had only a few days ago. While she doesn’t fall, the contradiction between her earlier hurry and her current predicament are enough to make Anakin giggle. Ahsoka glances back when she finally finds her balance, face flushed, but she too is quick to join him. Her laughter rings out through the calm of the forest, warming that thing in Anakin’s chest that he hasn’t managed to put a name to, but thinks might be _contentment_. When he glances over at Obi-Wan, the man is watching on with a smile that could be considered nothing less than smitten.

This is not the life Anakin chose for himself, but he supposes that there are worse ways to spend it. He could be back in Coruscant, pouring over a mountain of paperwork and chasing empty leads. He could be spending every night alone, with no one but Threepio for company. He could have left Artoo to die in that alley, depriving himself of a loyal companion; he could have let things go further when Obi-Wan kissed him over beers and never known the man behind the mask. But he hadn’t—he couldn’t. Anakin’s thrown his lot in with the wolf, trusting him not to bite.

“When was the like time you went camping, Anakin?” Ahsoka asks him when they resume their trek.

Anakin shrugs. “We tried to do a camping retreat at work a few years back,” he says, “but my coworkers are kind of a handful. We all ended up going home early after a friend of mine did some stupid shit ended up catching fire.

“I bet it was Quinlan,” Obi-Wan interjects.

“It was Quinlan,” Anakin confirms with a sigh, much to Ahsoka’s delight.

“That sounds like a guy I need to meet,” she giggles.

Trying not to think too hard on the scenarios of why the pair might cross paths, he offers only a weak, “Maybe one day.”

* * *

 

“It’s cold,” Ahsoka mutters unhappily, scooting closer to the campfire and holding her hands out just short of the flames.

Around them, night has finally fallen and the forest is alive once again with the songs of insects and the rustling of the leaves. Two tents are standing on the far side of their small clearing—one for Ahsoka, one for Anakin and Obi-Wan. The air has taken on a slight chill, but the skies above them are a rich, dark blue and clear of any clouds that might obstruct their view of the coming meteor shower. Anakin must confess that he could not imagine a more perfect night.

“You should have brought a thicker jacket,” he teases, bundled up as he is in one of Obi-Wan’s heavier coats. The sleeves are too short, riding up above his wrists, but the thick wool is serving its purpose in keeping him warm while its owner rifles through something in their tent.

“It’s summer!” The girl protests, pulling her hands away from the flames just long enough to scrub at her arms through the light coat she wears. “I didn’t think it would get this cold!”

Obi-Wan returns then, a large grey hoodie in his hands. It bears the logo of what Anakin knows to be Obi-Wan’s alma mater, despite Obi-Wan’s reluctance to talk much about his history. “Here,” the man murmurs, unzipping the jacket and draping it carefully over the girl’s shoulders before he returns to Anakin’s side.

“Thanks,” Ahsoka says, stuffing her arms gratefully into the sleeves before zipping it closed once again. The jacket would have been large on Obi-Wan, so it all but swallows Ahsoka in its folds. She doesn’t particularly seem to mind.

“When is this meteor shower supposed to start, anyways?” Anakin asks, curling into Obi-Wan’s side once the man gets settled on the ground again.

Kenobi throws an arm loosely around his shoulders while he checks his watch. “Should be anytime now, though I suppose you cannot rush the wonder of the cosmos.”

“Should we put the fire out?” Ahsoka suggests.

Anakin shrugs. He’s not really gone camping since his mother was still alive, so he doesn’t know the protocol for these sorts of things. Obi-Wan decides against it, instead suggesting they move over by the tents on the far side of the clearing. It will be too hard to start it up again if they need to, he claims.

They settle in the grass just in time it seems, Ahsoka and Obi-Wan on their backs and Anakin with his head resting on Obi-Wan’s shoulder, as the first of the meteors begin making their way across the sky. It’s exactly as amazing as Ahsoka had promised it would be.

“You have to make a wish, you guys,” Ahsoka murmurs, voice soft with awe, but in the moment, Anakin cannot think of a single thing to wish for. Everything he ever needed is here.

* * *

 

"What'd you wish for?" Anakin will ask later, when they’ve all returned to the privacy of their tents. He props himself up on his elbow to stare down at Kenobi, excitement shining in his eyes and a bright smile on his face.

"If I tell you, it won't come true. Isn't that the way it works?"

"Come on, Obi-Wan" Anakin pleads, poking him in the chest.

The elder man doesn't look at him, and a silence stretches between them for a long moment, until Anakin thinks that maybe Obi-Wan really doesn't want to tell him. "I wished for this," Kenobi finally says, soft, like a confession, reaching up to gently cup Anakin’s cheek with one hand. "You, Ahsoka, and I, here together like this for as long as I can have it."

Anakin chuckles, touched by the sentiment. "That's a pretty simple wish to grant, Obi-Wan."

Only then does Kenobi meet his eyes, and there's something in his gaze, in his tone when he speaks, that silences Anakin's laughter. "You and I both know that's not true, darling."

Anakin's smile falls, staring into Obi-Wan's eyes, and sees the turmoil there. The truth of them dancing there. He has to tear his own gaze away, curling into the man's chest to avoid those eyes and what they mean.

It's so easy to pretend, sometimes. So easy to believe that he's really Obi-Wan's simple, faithful boyfriend, accompanying him to the cabin for a romantic getaway during the breaks. He's been playing the role for so long now that sometimes it's so easy to forget that he was ever anything else. Sometimes, he doesn't want to remember the life he had beyond those four walls.

"I wish it were," Anakin confesses into the hollow of Obi-Wan's throat.

The man's arms come up around him, pulling him closed and tucking Anakin's head beneath Kenobi's chin. Obi-Wan smooths his hair back before dropping a fond kiss to the top of his head. "I know, darling," Obi-Wan says. "I know.

"I would kill you before I let them take you from me," he murmurs fervently into Anakin's hair, tightening his grip on the younger man until it's just shy of painful. There is a venom there, possession rotting away what little heart Kenobi has left.

"I won't leave you," Anakin vows. "I promise. No matter what happens, I won't ever abandon you. I'll always be yours."

Those words seem to settle at least some of Kenobi's anxiety. His grip loosens, now more an embrace than the desperate cling it was. Anakin sighs, settling himself more comfortably against the man and allowing his eyes to slip closed.

He falls asleep listening to the rhythm of Obi-Wan's heart and wishing, just as fervently, that this moment never end.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun fact: Obi-Wan never gets that hoodie back. The one he gives Ahsoka here is the same one she wears to the station when she visited Anakin waaaay back in Chapter 6.
> 
> We only have 3 more chapters left of this fic! It's been a wild ride, you guys. 1 more flash back, 1 present chapter, and an epilogue. Hope to see you there!


	30. Thirty

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Was up all night finishing this am i'm exhausted but pretty satisfied with it.

The thing is, nothing stays the same forever. The universe is constantly in motion, planets rotating around stars that will eventually cease to be. Nothing is immune from the passing of time—least of all the fragile existence Anakin Skywalker and Obi-Wan Kenobi keep in their cabin in the woods of Naboo.

The summer months pass in a haze of heat and laughter, Ahsoka making the hike to their home nearly every day. She breathes life into the quiet residence, recounting tales of her escapades during the school year and her slow seduction of classmate Riyo Tuchi. They huddle around the fire pit Ahsoka convinces Obi-Wan to dig in the front lawn, or lay out on the roof to watch the stars. These are the days when Anakin never stops smiling, when Ahsoka’s footsteps echo through the house, when the dogs go to bed exhausted from the day’s excitement. These are the days when Obi-Wan is content, when he spends the nights making careful, tender love to Anakin instead of prowling Coruscant’s streets. These are the days when they are as close to normal, as close to a real family, as they ever will be.

Summer fades into fall, and Ahsoka and Obi-Wan once again depart to Coruscant for school. The days grow shorter, and the air carries just a hint of the coming winter’s chill. Anakin finds it pleasant after the summer’s heat, bundling up in one of Obi-Wan’s coats as he enjoys his morning coffee. The days his partner is gone are lonely, but he has the dogs for company and watches with childish glee as the leaves change from their greens to rich shades of red, orange, and yellow. He, Artoo, and Threepio take walks through the woods and Anakin delights in the crunch of the fallen leaves under his feet. There is a sense of anticipation in the air, however, as the fall months pass. Anakin knows what comes next, and he isn’t quite sure he’s ready for the return of days filed with anxiety and nights bathed in blood.

But then again, not everything can stay the same forever, and Anakin doesn’t know that he would soon come to mourn those days.

* * *

 

“Anakin,” someone says, distant as the next galaxy. It is barely a whisper, background noise of a pleasant dream, but the prodding that follows is much more effective at rousing him from sleep. Anakin grumbles unhappily at the contact, shuffling away insomuch as his still sleep-lax body will allow and curling the blankets tighter around himself. The action earns him a soft chuckle from whoever is insisting on bothering him at this hour.

“Anakin,” they say again, “you have to get up, dearest.”

Cracking open one eye, Anakin looks up to meet the unmistakable eyes of his partner. Obi-Wan leans over him, one hand braced by the side of Anakin’s hand an unmistakably fond smile on his lips. He brushes the fingers of his free hand through Anakin’s hair, drawing a low groan from the former detective.

“It’s not even light out yet,” Anakin whines, attempting to pull the blankets up over his head until Kenobi reaches out to catch them and stops the motion. “’S too early.”

“I know,” Obi-Wan replies, “but today is a special occasion. You can make an exception to sleeping in just this once, I think.”

“What occasion is so special that it necessitates getting up this early?”

“You’ll see,” Kenobi murmurs, leaning in to place a gentle kiss to Anakin’s lips. This contact is much more welcome than the prodding from earlier, so Anakin allows it. Presses eagerly into the touch, and when Obi-Wan draws away, chases it. “See?” he asks, a smirk on his face when the younger man finally opens his eyes. “You’re already halfway there.”

He is, much to Anakin’s dismay. In the process of pursuing the kiss, he’d sat himself up, the warm blankets now pooling around his hips and exposing his bare chest to the cold morning air. “You cheated,” he pouts.

“All’s fair, darling,” Obi-Wan says. “Now come on.”

Already halfway out of bed, Anakin has no choice to but climb all the way out and follow Kenobi to the closet. The man himself is already dressed, bundled up against the cold in his thick pea coat and a scarf, but Anakin himself is dressed only in his boxers and his collar. His skin develops goose pimples as he watches Kenobi sort through their belongings, selecting a long-sleeved flannel for Anakin and a pair of jeans his size. Another thick winter coat goes over top of the flannel, and Anakin’s hands flutter up to unclasp the collar around his neck before Obi-Wan stops him.

“Leave it on, just for today,” he says, and Anakin feels his brows jump in surprise. Kenobi has never made him leave the cabin with the collar on. In fact, most of the time he’s adamant that Anakin take it off whenever they run the chance of interacting with other people. Even when Ahsoka is here, the band is stored away in its box in the nightstand, the pair aware that their proclivities would undoubtedly raise questions from the girl. “The collar of the jacket will hide it,” Kenobi insists, and Anakin finds himself nodding in agreement despite the voice in his head telling him that it’s still a terrible idea.

There’s a mug of coffee waiting for him on the counter downstairs, but breakfast itself is absent. Obi-Wan deposits the travel mug into his hands, snatches the keys from where they’d rested beside the cup, and ushers Anakin out the front door.

“Do we need to pack the dogs?” Anakin asks, clutching at his coffee cup with both hands as Obi-Wan steers him down the front porch with a hands at the small of his back.

“Not today,” the man murmurs, opening the passenger’s side door for his partner when Anakin is close enough. A small part of him is disappointed that he won’t be driving, but then Obi-Wan has only ever allowed him to drive a few times over the last year. According to him, Anakin’s driving is “reckless” and “dangerous”. Anakin just thinks the older man has a weak stomach when it comes to all the possibilities of what a car can really do with a competent driver behind the wheel. “Today is just about us,” Kenobi continues as Anakin climbs into the vehicle.

The car rumbles to life with a purr that is testimony to the hours Anakin has spent working on it, and Obi-Wan begins their trip down the mountain.

Anakin is entirely unsure what’s gotten into his partner, but he can’t say he’s complaining. The onset of winter has brought with it the onset of Obi-Wan’s pattern. He’s only taken one victim so far, a lovely blonde that could have been the spitting image of Kenobi’s former lover Satine, but with the routine comes the trouble with his temper and the restless nights. He’s never been edgy enough to raise a hand against again, not since the night they fought over Rako Hardeen, but the inside of the car is permeated with the scent of cigarette smoke and Anakin has caught Obi-Wan drinking more than once. This happy, upbeat personality is unexpected, but a pleasant change of pace from the weeks of tension.

He leans against the window, sipping from his travel mug and staring in wonder at the frost-covered forest as it passes. Despite having the heat cranked up, there is still something of a chill in the vehicle due to the windows Kenobi has cracked to let out the smoke from the cigarette he lights up. The journey is a slow one due to the conditions of the road, but Anakin finds himself luxuriating in the peace of it. Obi-Wan hums along with the radio as he drives, apparently content to leave Anakin in the dark as to where they’re going. Into town, he supposes, though he can’t imagine why. His partner just brought home groceries earlier in the week, and they left the dogs back at the house.

 _“We now bring you a special announcement from—”_ the radio announces, and Obi-Wan mashes a button to change the station before the bulletin can get any further.

“That could have been important,” Anakin says.

“How much so-called important news is _actually_ relevant to you, Anakin?” Obi-Wan asks as he continues to fiddle with the radio, trying to find something to listen to.

Anakin doesn’t even dignify him with a response, because he knows the answer to be _very little_. Life in Kenobi’s cabin has narrowed his world to… well… almost exclusively the cabin. If it’s not immediately affecting either himself or Kenobi, it really isn’t that important in the grand scheme of things.

There are really only so many places they can go, so Anakin isn’t entirely surprised when they pull into the parking lot of Tii’s Teahouse. After their last visit to the shop, Obi-Wan has been avoiding the small café like the plague. He is particularly vain at times, and the revelation that Anakn had inadvertently soiled his pristine reputation with the shop’s owner had kept him from coming back. This visit is a further anomaly, but Anakin can’t be bothered to think further on it once he catches the scent of fresh-baked pastries.

Despite the early hour, the shop is already bustling with activity as the morning crowd heads into work. Anakin can feel eyes on them as they wait in line for their turn to order, but he chalks the attention up to the rarity of their presence. Instead he leans into Obi-Wan’s side, considering the neat rows of pasties and sweets and debating just how much Obi-Wan will let him get away with.

The answer comes when they reach the counter, the older man leaning in to murmur, “Get whatever you want, Anakin.”

Anakin blinks, pulling away from the man for a moment to look him in the face. “Seriously?” he asks, because he knows Kenobi is aware of his sweet tooth and usually the man attempts to curb his habits _for his own good_.

“Yes, Anakin,” Obi-Wan replies. “Just order.”

“What brings you both out here this morning?” Tii asks as she packs up the impressive list of pastries Anakin rattled off and Obi-Wan’s own order. “Haven’t seen you around here lately.”

There’s something sickeningly sweet in her tone that catches Anakin’s attention. He isn’t given time to dwell on it, however, when Obi-Wan answers, “It’s our anniversary.”

 _That_ thought brings everything else grinding to a halt as he tries to process it. Their anniversary. He knew it was going on a year now that he’d been living in Kenobi’s cabin, but he’d long-ago forgotten the exact date he was whisked away from his life in Coruscant. What’s more surprising is that this is clearly something Obi-Wan wants to celebrate, judging by how eagerly he responds to Tii’s questions into their relationship. Anakin certainly wouldn’t have thought to do anything for the date even if he’d known it, considering the circumstances of their coming-together. A year.

The niggling thought in the back of Anakin’s mind comes back as he watches Kenobi and Tii interact. The last time they’d seen Tii, she’d been openly hostile with Obi-Wan over his mistreatment of Anakin. He doesn’t think that the woman has forgotten; she doesn’t seem like the type. Then there’s the way her eyes keep flickering over to Anakin, scrutinizing. To the leather he realizes is peeking out from beneath the collar of his shirt.

It may have been a year since Anakin was a real cop, but he didn’t spend years honing his skill for nothing. He is suddenly hyper aware of everything going on around them—of the murmuring of the crowd in the restaurant and the weight of eyes upon them. It’s like insects crawling under his skin, and Anakin realizes that something isn’t quite right. He doesn’t know what, but there is definitely something _wrong_.

They need to get out of here.

Obi-Wan collects the box containing their things, thanking Tii with a charming smile, and begins to lead the way toward a table at the back of the café. As soon as they’re far enough away from the counter to not be overheard, Anakin takes hold of Obi-Wan’s arm, drawing him to a halt. The man turns, looking at him with visible confusion that quickly morphs to concern when he takes in Anakin’s obvious anxiety.

“Anakin? What’s wrong, dearest?”

“I-I don’t feel well,” Anakin stammers out. It’s a weak excuse, but the nausea that comes with his unease makes it close enough to the truth. “Can we—Can we please just go home?”

Kenobi looks vaguely put-out about having his big anniversary outing cut so short, but his concern for Anakin’s wellbeing outweighs it. “Of course, love,” he says, and changes directions, leading them toward the door instead.

From the corner of his eye, Anakin catches someone holding their phone up in a way that is unmistakable as taking a picture. He tries to stay cool, but he ends up just short of bolting out of the building, leaving a very confused Obi-Wan in his wake. He’s already behind the wheel by the time his partner stumbles out after him, still clinging to the box of pastries as though they are still the most important part of the morning.

“Anakin, what is going on?” He demands, but Anakin doesn’t have the patience to answer. Not here.

“Just get in the car, Obi-Wan,” he snaps.

His tone earns him a scowl from the older man, and if this were any other day Anakin might fear the repercussions. “If you aren’t feeling well, you shouldn’t be driving,” Kenobi presses.

“Just give me the keys and get in the fucking car!” Anakin snarls back. Obi-Wan does, perhaps out of sheer surprise at his lover’s vehemence. Anakin knows better than to take any kind of tone with Kenobi, so this repeated offense is clear sign that there is definitely something upsetting him.

Anakin fiddles with the radio after they peel out of the parking lot, making their way up the mountain as fast as is safe. It’s not nearly fast enough, but it won’t do for him to kill them both before he even figures out what’s wrong.

“Anakin, love, please tell me what’s going on!” Obi-Wan pleads, knuckles white where he grips the roll bar.

“There’s something wrong!”

“I can clearly see that,” Kenobi says dryly. “But _what_?”

“I don’t know!” Anakin answers, frustrated when flipping through the stations turns up nothing but music. Where is the damn news when you need it? “But didn’t you see everyone back there? They were all looking at us, and Miss Tii was being nice—”

“Of course she was being nice, Anakin. She’s a nice woman.”

“Not to you! The last time we went, she looked like she was two seconds from punching your lights out! It’s why we haven’t gone back!”

The car swerves dangerously with Anakin’s increasing frustration, and Obi-Wan settles a hand on the younger man’s shoulder. He’s wearing a smile that looks more forced than anything, when Anakin glances over at him.

“Anakin,” he says, “calm down, dearest. Whatever this is, we’ll deal with it together, ok?”

Anakin swallows around the lump in his throat. “Ok.”

* * *

 

They sit together on their old, worn couch and watch Anakin’s face stare down at them from the television screen. The photograph they’ve selected of him for the broadcast is from the day of his swearing-in as a detective. He’s in his uniform, saluting and smiling dopily at the camera, appearing helplessly charming and charismatic. Anakin remembers that day feeling like the best day of his life, but he can’t quite muster that emotion now. Now all he feels is an aching, empty wound in his chest that he thinks might be grief.

 _Anniversary of Missing Coruscant Detective_ , the headline reads. There was an interview with his coworkers, and a recap of the days that led up to his disappearance. Quin had gotten on the air and made a heartfelt speech about how they haven’t stopped looking for him—how they’re still holding out hope that Anakin is alive somewhere out there. It makes Anakin sick.

At his side, Obi-Wan is motionless. “What can we do?” the man asks. Neither of them had truly expected this day to come. “Get in the car and… run?”

Anakin sighs morosely. “There’s only one way off the mountain; they’ll have set up roadblocks at the base already. We’d never get past.”

“So… that’s it?” Kenobi’s voice is as hollow as Anakin feels. “We just sit here and wait for them to come?”

They could. They could sit here on this couch and wait for the inevitable. They could cooperate, and maybe Anakin would be granted leniency for what he’s done. Maybe Obi-Wan would actually make it to trial, instead of turning up dead after a suicide that everyone would know was really a police killing in disguise.

But if they do… what then? Where would they be? With Obi-Wan’s body count, no jury is going to let him off with anything less than an execution. Maybe life in a super-max if he takes a plea deal, for however long he lasts before he’s killed there. Life in an asylum if he pleads insanity. And Anakin? Anakin will never be able to go back to his life before. They won’t let him. He, too, is staring down the barrel of a life in chains. Imprisoned, or rotting in an institution somewhere while someone tries to fix him.

They’re backed into a corner, and the thought triggers something powerful in Anakin. An anger that burns bright and hot in his gut, scorches his insides and setting his mind into motion. He refuses to lay down and go quietly, like a lamb to slaughter. He refuses to let them hurt Obi-Wan.

“No,” he says harshly, shooting up off the couch with a suddenness that startles Kenobi. “No, we aren’t.”

“Anakin, what do you think we can do? You said it yourself, we can’t run—”

“Yes we can,” Anakin says, pacing in front of the couch with sudden, manic energy. “Or rather, _you can_.”

That has Obi-Wan on his feet in an instant, expression twisting from apathy to anger. “No,” he says sharply. “No, Anakin. We talked about this; I’m not leaving you here. I refuse to leave you.”

“You have to!” the younger man insists, taking Kenobi by the shoulders. “They’ll kill you if you stay; you have to run.”

“Then run with me. Run away with me, Anakin.” He can read the desperation in Obi-Wan’s eyes, can hear it in his tone.

Anakin shakes his head, feeling hot tears welling up in his eyes. “I can’t, Obi-Wan. I can’t. You know these mountains; I don’t. I’d only slow you down. We both know it.”

“Anakin, please don’t do this,” Kenobi pleads, and Anakin feels like he’s being gutted. Like someone is reaching inside his chest and tearing his heart from his chest. Like a dozen other metaphors that can never quite cover the agony he feels at the thought of separation. At knowing they don’t have any other option. “Please, please.”

“Please go, Obi-Wan,” Anakin says, surprising himself with how steady he manages to keep his voice. “Go. I’ll wait here and I’ll—I’ll distract them. They won’t hurt me.”

Obi-Wan groans, a broken noise, and drags Anakin down into a passionate, desperate kiss. Anakin tastes the salt of their tears on their lips, hears the hitch of Kenobi’s breath as he tries to keep breathing even. “I’ll come back for you,” he murmurs, fervent. He sounds a moment away from breaking. “I swear, I’ll come back for you.”

“I’ll wait for you,” Anakin answers. “I promise, Obi-Wan, I’ll be waiting. However long it takes.”

 

“I love you,” he whispers to empty air, listening to the sound of the door slamming shut behind Obi-Wan Kenobi.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Our final past chapter! The end is in sight! See y'all there!


	31. Thirty-One

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello naughty children, it's CONFRONTATION TIME.

**Present**

The silence coming the nursery is unnerving. Anakin has not heard the gun in Obi-Wan's custody discharge, but the twins are still so young, so fragile. It would be easy for Obi-Wan to hurt them without even having to rely on the weapon if he decided to take his frustrations out on them in retaliation for Anakin's lack of cooperation. Anakin isn't certain how much longer he can last with not knowing what is going on in the other room.

Pressing the heel of his palm to the worst of the wound and gritting his teeth against the surge of pain that movement brings, Anakin struggles to get his good leg under him. The bad one will only just hold his weight, forcing him to lean heavily on whatever he can as he hobbles toward the door. He leaves a trail of blood behind—testament to his perseverance. By the time he reaches the doorway, he's panting heavily and hot tears sting at his eyes. The pain is agonizing; he doesn't let that stop him.

Stumbling to a halt and bracing his weight against the doorframe, Anakin takes in the scene before him. Obi-Wan is hovering over Luke's crib, his free hand reaching in to fiddle with the child while the gun hangs loosely in the hand at his side. He looks... confounded, as though Luke is a puzzle he can't quite piece together. He won’t be able to, no matter how hard he tries. Not without all the pieces, anyways, and Anakin is keeping those close to his chest. He doesn’t know how Obi-Wan would react if he were to find out they’re Anakin’s, and isn’t willing to test it while the man is already out of his usual behavioral pattern.

Anakin's leg buckles, taking him down with it, and the brief commotion as he scrambles to slow his fall is enough to draw Obi-Wan's attention away from the child. He steps away from the crib, just one distracted step toward Anakin in a thoughtless reaction to provide aid, but that one step may as well be a mile. Anakin hadn't quite understood all that parental instinct talk when Breha first brought it up, but he's thinking that he gets it now.

"There you are," Obi-Wan says, catching himself before he moves any closer to his wounded partner. There is a furrow of discomfort in his brow, now, that Anakin recognizes. His blood has always done that to Kenobi. "I was wondering how long it would take you to join me."

“Here I am,” Anakin agrees, fumbling with his shirt and peeling it off. He can feel Obi-Wan’s eyes on him, like a thousand insects crawling beneath his skin, but he’d rather deal with that than continue to bleed all over the floor.

“So, this is the reason you fought with me?” he asks with a glance over his shoulder back at the cribs. “I must confess, I don’t really understand. These… children. What are they to you? Why would you risk yourself to protect them?”

Anakin sighs. He’s not particularly surprised—Obi-Wan has demonstrated very little compassion for anything or anyone that isn’t directly connected to him. “They’re just babies, Obi-Wan. They’re helpless,” he tries to explain. “I was—I _am_ —terrified for them. You’re dangerous, and we both know it. I wasn’t sure what you would do if you found them.”

“I would have done nothing; they are nothing to me. This is what I don’t understand.”

“Are you telling me that if you were in my position, you wouldn’t have done the same thing? If it were Ahsoka under threat, you wouldn’t have tried to defend her?”

Obi-Wan makes a soft tsk. "I've known Ahsoka since she was small. You've known these children what, three weeks?"

"I'm responsible for them!" Anakin snaps, and realizes that he's miss-stepped as soon as the words fall. He's admitted weakness—shown his belly to the predator in the room. Obi-Wan lips curl into a victorious smile, and Anakin can almost hear the trap snapping closed around him.

"Yes, you are, aren't you?" Obi-Wan turns back to the cribs then—Leia's this time—and leans against the railing, staring down at the child. Anakin can't see his expression, and a part of him is glad of it. "You know what I want, Anakin," he says, dragging the hand with the gun along the length of the railing in a very deliberate motion. An unspoken threat. The weapon catches in the warm afternoon light, and Anakin can't draw his eyes away from it. "You can make this easy on everyone; I don't have to hurt them."

Anakin knows. He knows what Obi-Wan wants and he knows that the man will keep his word if he agrees to his terms. The thought raises bile in his throat, but Anakin can see no other option. He's wounded, and alone, and he needs to get Obi-Wan away from his children. Bail's collar, the slim chain, feels like a brand around his neck.

"Anything," he forces himself to say. "Obi-Wan, anything."

Only then does the man look at him, just a glance over his shoulder, but there's a sharpness behind his eyes that raises hair on the back of Anakin's neck. "Come here."

The command is short and terse; it leaves Anakin mentally flailing. He can't get up, as there's nothing to brace himself on between the doorway and Obi-Wan. His wounded leg won't support his weight even to cross that small distance now that he's expended so much energy simply getting into the room. He doesn't think Obi-Wan will accept that as an excuse to disobey the command, however. Which leaves...

Heat flushes Anakin's cheeks, shame over what is to come. In all their play back at the cabin, Obi-Wan had never used humiliation as a method of punishment. Physical, yes, and the restriction of privileges, but he’d never made Anakin feel lesser. He bites his lower lip, worrying it for a moment as he works up the confidence to begin. It's for the twins, he tells himself. It's for my children.

It is exactly as humiliating as he thought it would be to drag himself across the floor to Obi-Wan's side, fingers digging into the thick carpet as he pulls himself along, leaving a trail of blood in his wake that stains the previously pristine carpet. Anakin suspects that was rather the point of the exercise, though: to remind him of exactly who is in control—who has always been in control, no matter what he'd managed to delude himself into believing. They were never equals; Obi-Wan's compassion was purchased with his own submission.

He is openly weeping by the time he's done, collapsed in a heap at Obi-Wan's feet and grasping blindly at the man’s pant legs. Humiliated, in pain, and positively terrified for the futures of both himself and his children. He doesn't want this, but he can see no other way out. These are his children. Bail and Breha's children. They took the twins in and cared for them when Anakin could not; they took him in and cared for him when he couldn't care for himself. He owes them at least this. For everything they've done.

Obi-Wan kneels beside him, tucking the gun into the waistband of his pants before prying loose Anakin’s grasp on his legs and drawing him up into his arms with a tenderness that makes Anakin want to scream. "There," Kenobi murmurs. "See? That wasn't so hard, was it?"

He presses a kiss to Anakin's forehead, nuzzles along his hairline. "I told you that I would do whatever it takes to keep you. It doesn't have to be so difficult, though, if you don't force me to do these things."

Anakin hates how quickly he relaxes in Obi-Wan's grip. Hates how his body seems to press into the other man without his permission. Hates the soft, broken, "I'm sorry," that escapes him at the reprimand. He hates that when he says those words, he means them. He _is_ sorry, despite knowing that he shouldn’t be. Despite knowing that’s it’s logical and rational to fight against what Kenobi wants from him.

"It's alright," Obi-Wan assures, "I know you're confused. These people will say whatever they want to keep you from me. They think they can turn you against me." His hand raises, running around the circumference of Anakin's throat and along the thin band of metal that encircles it. "But we can fix that."

He grabs hold of the collar, one hard, swift tug breaking it loose. It's painful, yanking on the delicate skin of his throat, and Anakin adds this ache to the list of hurts that Obi-Wan has wrought him. The sight of the chain in Obi-Wan's hand is enough to churn his stomach; this is a part of his life Obi-Wan should have never had access to.

Kenobi allows the chain to slide out of his hand and onto the floor. It hardly makes a noise on the thick carpet, settling among the plush fibers. Then he reaches into one of the pockets on his uniform, drawing out a leather band that is almost familiar. Not quite as wide as his old collar, and clearly of a lower quality, but Anakin suspects this to be something Obi-Wan picked up on the run. There's not very many opportunities to custom order a hand-crafted leather collar for your favorite pet while you're hiding from the authorities. It irritates Anakin's skin when Obi-Wan wraps it around his neck, rough and unworn.

"There," Kenobi murmurs, smoothing his hand over the collar. "That's better, isn't it?"

 _No_ , a rational part of Anakin thinks. "Yes," the part of him that never ceased to love this man says.

"I thought so," Obi-Wan replies. He pushes Anakin away from his chest—far enough to tilt his head up and capture his lips.

Anakin can't help but squirm, trying to pull away, but Kenobi uses his backward momentum to push him over. Landing on his back, Anakin quickly finds himself covered by Obi-Wan's familiar weight. He doesn't seem to want to take anything further, content to simply lay there and bask in their closeness, but Anakin still can't stop from trembling in his anxiety. Obi-Wan hushes him, pets him, trying to calm.

"I missed you," Anakin hears himself say when he’s finally settling, fingers tangling on the back of Kenobi's uniform. He feel his hands brush against the metal of the gun, but Anakin can’t work up the willpower to grab it and start the fight all over again. His stomach churns with self-loathing at his own resignation. "I missed you so much."

"I know, darling," Obi-Wan murmurs, pressing a kiss to his jawline. "I know. I missed you, too. You have no idea how hard it was not to come for you sooner."

“I was so scared—”

“I know. I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry I had to leave you.”

Anakin doesn’t know how long they lay there, after that, but no more words are exchanged between them. His leg still throbs dully, but it is background noise in comparison to the sensation of having Kenobi over him, on him, after so long separated. To the wet puffs of the man’s breath and the scratch of his beard against the skin of Anakin’s neck. The twins are still quiet, though not asleep if their soft burbling is anything to go by. They probably won’t fall back asleep for a while due to the earlier commotion, but Anakin thinks he could possibly pass out right here on the floor. It feel so _good_ to be with Obi-Wan again…

The noise of the front door slamming shut startles Anakin out of his daze. “Anakin?” Bail calls, his voice carrying up the stairs and through the open doors to the nursery. “I’m home!”

Oh, fuck. This is the only thought Anakin’s mind can conjure up as he feels Kenobi stiffen atop him, the man’s breathing suddenly turning fast and ragged at the sound of Bail’s approaching footsteps. Caught up as he was in Obi-Wan’s sudden return, Anakin had completely forgotten that Organa was on his way home. He’d let them linger too long, and now there’s not going to be any way out of this without an ugly confrontation.

Obi-Wan heaves himself off Anakin as Organa calls out for Anakin again, grabbing the younger man by his bicep and hauling him harshly to his feet. The suddenness of the moment and putting weight on his wounded leg draws a pained yelp from Anakin, and Bail must hear it because his next, “Anakin!?” is much sharper than those that came before it.

Anakin hears Bail enter the adjoining bedroom at the same time Obi-Wan wraps his arm around his throat, drawing the younger man close to his chest and all but immobilizing him. He can’t go anywhere when he feels the cool barrel of the handgun press into the underside of his jaw, and the pressure on his throat makes it a bit difficult to breathe, but at least he can lean his weight back against Kenobi and take some of the strain off his injured leg.

Bail is _definitely_ frantic now, undoubtedly having discovered the trail of blood Anakin left from the bedroom into the nursery. It’s only a moment more before the man stumbles into the room, coming to an abrupt, swaying halt in the doorway at the sight that greets him.

“You must be Bail Organa,” Obi-Wan purrs, an edge to his voice that makes Anakin shudder. “So nice to finally meet you.”

“You,” Bail breathes, wide-eyed. “How did—how did you get in here?” His head swings around to the cribs, but he’s too away to see into them.

“Let’s just say I’m… resourceful,” Kenobi says with a shrug. It seems he, too, has noticed the focus of Bail’s attention, because he adds a terse, “Don’t worry about the children. Anakin here was quite insistent that I didn’t hurt them.”

Bail’s eyes drop from Obi-Wan to Anakin, tracking down to Anakin’s bloodstained clothes and the open wound on his thigh. He puts the pieces together quickly, Anakin’s defense of the twins and the injury he sustained in the process, and there is a glimmer of gratefulness in his eyes when he meets Anakin’s again. The man steps forward, and Obi-Wan orders, “Don’t come any closer!”

Organa’s eyes dart to the gun pressed into Anakin’s jaw and the pallor of his skin. He’s clearly torn between going to Anakin’s aid and respecting the threat Obi-Wan has made with the weapon’s presence. “Are you alright?” he asks, but Kenobi cuts in before Anakin has a chance to respond.

“And don’t talk to him!” Kenobi adds, tugging Anakin infinitesimally closer. Anakin knows he doesn’t like the challenge to his authority—doesn’t like the threat Bail represents. He’d only just gotten the younger man back under his thumb.

The twins have stated up again with Kenobi’s raised voice, adding another layer of tension to the room. Their wails grate at something primal in Anakin’s chest, and he can see that echoed in Organa. He desperately wishes to calm them, but is stuck in his position by the door.

"Stars, why are you doing this?" Bail groans, and Anakin can read the helpless bewilderment on his face. It had always been possible that Obi-Wan would come back for him, but for the first time, Anakin realizes that Bail hadn't actually thought it would happen. He genuinely believed that if he could break Anakin of his dependence on Kenobi, that would be the end of it; that Obi-Wan wouldn't risk capture by jumping into the viper's nest to collect his prized pet. Bail clearly doesn't know Kenobi as well as Anakin. "Why did you risk everything to come back here?"

"I thought it would be obvious: I love him."

"You don't love him," Organa hisses. "If you did, you would want what is best for him! Not whatever sick fantasy is playing out inside your head!"

"I am what's best for him!" Obi-Wan snarls, the barrel of the gun trembling where it's pressed under Anakin's jaw along with the shaking of Obi-Wan's hands. Anakin knows with certainty that Bail is never going to be able to talk Obi-Wan down. The only way this is going to end is with either their escape or their death; Obi-Wan will never let him go now that he's had a taste of everything he's ever wanted. “Now step aside, Organa. I’m afraid Anakin and I must be going.”

Anakin also knows that he won't fight back. However Kenobi decides this is going to end—that will be his destiny. Protest would seal the fate of everyone in this room, and it would not be a happy ending. At least, if Obi-Wan decides to just kill them both, Anakin will be the only victim here.

"You're delusional if you think I'm going to just let you just walk out of here with him."

"I don't see where you have another option. Do you really want his blood on your hands? Is that guilt something you can live with?"

"Is it something you could?" Bail challenges. "If you love him _so much_ , could you kill him and keep living your life knowing that you ended his?"

Obi-Wan's lips twitch, a bittersweet smile. "Of course not. But then, I never said he'd die alone, did I?" The sound of the hammer cocking is loud is loud in silence that follows Kenobi's declaration. "This is your final warning, Organa. Step aside, or I _will_ kill him."

"Anakin," Bail says, changing his tactics. He turns desperate, beseeching eyes on the younger man. "Please."

Anakin cannot hold his gaze, casting his own down to the floor instead as he remains limp in Kenobi's grip. One day Bail will look back on this encounter, and he will understand why Anakin is making this decision.

"Five," Obi-Wan growls, and Bail's eyes go wide.

"Four," and Anakin wonders if this is really how he's going to die.

"Three," and he finds himself leaning away from the gun, insomuch as he can with Kenobi holding him firmly.

"Two," and he twists his head, tucking his nose into the crook of Obi-Wan's jaw and inhaling deeply. His scent is familiar, soothing, in the face of Anakin's demise. This certainly isn’t how he would have liked to go out, but sometimes you just have to roll with what life gives you.

"One—"

"Wait!" Bail shouts, throwing his hands up in supplication. They are shaking, Anakin sees. This encounter has broken even Bail's tremendous composure and resolve. "Please, wait."

"Step aside, Organa," Obi-Wan says again, and Bail, on trembling legs, does. Steps away from the door, allowing Obi-Wan to drag Anakin towards it. It's an awkward procedure, Anakin's legs are still weak from his near brush with death, as Obi-Wan keeps him between himself and Bail. Not allowing the other man the opportunity to get to him without first going through Anakin.

"I'm sorry," Anakin mumbles as they pass his former lover. He can think of nothing else to say.

"Me, too." Bail replies, and then they are gone. Pulled into the bedroom, then into the hall. Organa does not give chase, unwilling to test Obi-Wan's patience any further, and likely desiring to comfort his children after the stressors of the afternoon.

Only when they reach the stairs to Obi-Wan release the grip on his neck, instead adjusting his grip to take Anakin’s weight and guiding him down the stairs with a soft, "This way."

They slip out the back door, limp out to the back gate, and find waiting a delivery motorcycle along with a police car full of unconscious officers. Obi-Wan fishes what is apparently the key to Anakin's anklet from the pockets of his stolen uniform and bends briefly to snap it open before ushering Anakin onto the bike. He pulls on the spare helmet Kenobi offers him, settles against the man's back, wraps his arms around his waist. The bike revs, briefly drowning out the sound of approaching sirens, and then Obi-Wan is pulling away from the house. They take to the roads, and Anakin finds himself clinging tighter to Obi-Wan than he intends.

God, how he'd missed him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just the epilogue left. Whaaaaaat?
> 
> By "resourceful", Obi-Wan means "I stalked your house for a week and noticed that the cops out back get coffee delivered every day, so I paid a delivery boy to fuck off and introduced the police to my old friend, a strong sedative".


	32. Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay on this. I rewrote it like four times.

**Six Months Later**

The music of the nightclub is loud in Anakin’s ears, synthetic tones echoing in the cavernous space and the bass pounding against his ribcage. Multicolored lights flash and spin, lighting up the writhing mass of bodies on the crowded dance floor in random, erratic bursts. Sweat and sex and booze linger in the air, clogging Anakin’s nose and curling his lip in distaste. He was never much one for the club scenes even when he wasn’t a fugitive, preferring a quiet bar to the hustle of nightclubs, but he has to admit there’s something liberating about anonymity it provides. In the dark room, he is nobody; he is anybody. Just another man lost in the sea of shadowy faces.

It’s what Obi-Wan likes about clubs, too, he knows now. Fast-paced, target-rich. No one ever remembers what you looked like, how long you stayed, what drinks you bought. There are too many names, too many faces, too few reasons to care. No one goes to a nightclub looking to remember the time they spent there; it’s what made snatching people from them so easy for years and years.

Even now, sitting at a table on the balcony overlooking the dance floor, no one seems to notice the predators in their midst. Their faces are on posters and most wanted lists across the country, but still the other patrons pass without even a second glance in their direction. Perhaps it is the cosmetic changes they’ve made, perhaps it is the dim lighting of the room. Or more likely, Anakin thinks, it is simply that no one cares.

Obi-Wan sips leisurely at a glass of expensive bourbon, posture loose and relaxed as he bobs his head shallowly to the music. Anakin still isn’t quite accustomed to his clean-shaven face, but he must admit that there is something about it that gives the man an air of youth. He looks completely at ease in this setting, giving Anakin insight on just how he managed to pull his victims so easily. Nobody would think to suspect the handsome man with the easy smile of anything more malicious than a couple weird kinks.

Anakin himself is drinking something strong and fruity that he’d forgotten the name of several glasses ago. The still-healing scabs across his back itch incessantly, catch on the fabric of his shirt, but he knows better than to try and pick at them. Kenobi has reprimanded him on more than one occasion for scratching, preaching the dangers of infection if they aren’t kept clean and given adequate time to heal. He’d taken Anakin over his knee for the snarky reply that he should have thought about that before taking a knife to Anakin’s skin.

“Ani, dear,” Obi-Wan says over the music and the noise of the crowd, drawing Anakin’s gaze from the dance floor. “Why don’t you go down to the bar and get me another drink?”

He’s about to open his mouth and comment on the fact that Obi-Wan isn’t even halfway through his current glass when he notices the intense way Obi-Wan is staring at the bar on the lower level. Following the man’s gaze, he easily picks out the focus of Kenobi’s attention: a pretty thing leaning against the bartop as she and her friends order another round of drinks. Her blonde hair falls past her shoulders and down her back in a gentle curl, dragging Anakin’s attention to a short dress and a pert ass.

He swallows dryly as he turns back to Obi-Wan, taking in the man’s hungry gaze and weighing the chances of getting out of this situation. “Obi-Wan,” he says carefully, “are you sure this is really—”

“Anakin,” Kenobi interrupts, turning a hard stare on the younger man that is at odds with his pleasant smile, “please go and get me another drink.”

Anakin drops his eyes to the table, slumping in defeat as he slips off his chair with a mumbled, “Yes, sir.”

Making his way down to the lower floor, Anakin finds himself hoping that the woman has gone her way by the time he gets there. Through the crowd, however, he can see her lingering even after her friends disappear among the writhing mass of bodies on the dance floor and hastily downs the rest of his cocktail in a last grasp for liquid courage. These little requests are not unusual, but that doesn’t make Anakin any more comfortable with it. He hates being the bait—hates other people touching him. It makes his skin crawl until he scrubs the echo of their contact from his skin under the spray of a too-hot shower. Until Obi-Wan holds him down and fucks him senseless, reminding him just who he belongs to.

“Is this seat taken?” He asks the woman when he gets close enough to be heard, gesturing to the space abandoned by her friends and giving her his best smile. He may not be as effortlessly suave as Obi-Wan—especially during those first few weeks following his isolation in the cabin—but his physical appearance and his often awkward, fumbled flirting is usually taken as hopelessly endearing.

She gives him a quick once-over and apparently likes what she sees because she turns to face him and gestures to the empty seat. “It is now,” she says, and Anakin doesn’t have to fake the flustered duck of his head or the blush that darkens his cheeks as he settles down on the barstool. “What’s your name, sweetheart?”

“A-Anakin,” he stutters, setting his empty glass down on the bartop. The woman gestures for the bartender to get him another drink, giving Anakin predatory smile that is all teeth. Obi-Wan sure has a talent for picking them, Anakin can’t help but think as he accepts the refilled glass.

“A pretty name for a pretty boy,” she purrs. “Are you from around here, Anakin?”

“No. Just in town for a couple days.”

Their conversation remains shallow and polite as they go through another round of drinks, but Anakin is very aware of the way the woman continues to drift closer, of the smell of alcohol on her breath, of Obi-Wan vanishing out the front door in clear expectation for Anakin to follow. He stutters his way through the answers to her questions, playing up the awkward, innocent act that is clearly drawing her in. More than once he apologizes, repeating how he doesn’t really do this often, and she waves him off with the hand not slowly crawling its way up his thigh.

“So, Anakin,” she asks when she’s practically sitting in his lap, breath hot against the shell of his ear, “you said you’re in town for a few days? Is your hotel nearby?”

“N-not too far,” he replies.

“Do you want to go back there?”

Anakin find himself ducking his head again, shoulders rounding with embarrassment as he nods a quick yes. Her smile is victorious as she gets to her feet, taking Anakin by the hand and tugging him off his stool and though the crowd towards the exit. “Let’s go then, sweetie,” she drawls.

The hotel isn’t far, but he still hails a cab once they’re out in the cool, night air. His date has clearly had a fair bit to drink and probably wouldn’t make it there in those heels if they tried to leg it. Let it never be said that Anakin is a discourteous lay.

She’s on him almost as soon as the door of the cab closes, barely allowing him time to give the driver the address before she’s crawling over him, straddling his lap and pressing her lips hungrily to his. This is, most definitely, the worst part of the night, in Anakin’s opinion. Forcing himself to play along; to imagine thin, chapped lips in place of plump, vaguely cherry-flavored ones; to make all the right noises when she grinds down on his lap. His body reacts the way she is expecting, but it’s all physical. Anakin could list a dozen other places he would rather be in this moment than with an attractive woman in his lap.

She giggles as they tumble out of the cab, Anakin hastily paying the fare before his date is tugging him along toward the room number on the key she pulls from his pocket. The low-end motel doesn’t seem to bother her, too excited about the prospect of a night with a handsome stranger to take notice of the broken security cameras, the nearly-empty parking lot, the inattentive office manager. This is typically where his dates get cold feet, where Anakin has to persuade them on and into the room, but not this one. This one stuffs the key in the lock and throws the door open without so much as a second thought, dragging Anakin into the darkened room after her.

It’s easier, in the dark. The feel of her hands are not quite right, smooth where Obi-Wan’s are calloused as she untucks his shirt and slides her hands beneath, but at least he doesn’t really have to look at her. The curtains are drawn, letting in only the faintest glow of moonlight. Anakin focuses on undressing her as he backs her toward where he knows the bed to be, feeling her working at the buttons of his shirt in between sliding out of her own garments.

Her dress pools on the flood, along with her underthings, and Anakin’s shirt is tossed unceremoniously aside. She manages to get his belt open and the button of his pants undone before he pushes her back onto the mattress, crawling over top of her and pushing her up toward the headboard.

“My sweet boy has a wild side,” he hears her chuckle when he takes her by the wrists, pinning them to the headboard and binding them tightly in the restraints already placed there.

“More than you could ever know,” a third party says, and Anakin feels the woman tense a moment before a lamp on the other side of the room flicks on.

Obi-Wan Kenobi lounges in an armchair by the room’s small desk, a bottle of beer in one hand and his favored pocket knife in the other. He fiddles with the blade, flicking it open and closed in a rhythmic pattern as he watches Anakin scramble off the woman.

“W-what the fuck?” she gapes, confused and just beginning to fear the situation she’s gotten herself into.

Obi-Wan downs the last of his drink, setting the bottle aside and pocketing the knife before pushing himself to his feet and making his way over to the bed. Anakin meets him halfway, eager for the hungry, claiming kiss that Kenobi drags him into. “Such a good boy,” Obi-Wan murmurs, his hands traveling up Anakin’s sides and around to his back. The younger man shutters as he traces the pattern of healing wounds there, his own name carved into Anakin’s skin—his claim marked in raised, reddened flesh. A claim no one will be able to dispute. “You did so well tonight.”

“Yeah?” Anakin asks, voice small. He hates it when Obi-Wan makes him the bait—is always desperate for reassurance that he hasn’t stepped out of line in his seduction of whatever pretty thing Obi-Wan points him at.

“Yes, darling,” Kenobi replies between kisses. “Absolutely perfect.”

Anakin blushes at the praise, ducking his head and breaking the kiss with an embarrassed whine. Obi-Wan catches his jaw before he turns his face too far away, turning him back and dropping a final peck on his lips before letting him go. “Now, why don’t you go wait in the bathroom while I do my work?”

The bathroom is usually where Anakin stays, but there is a voice whispering in the back of his mind—telling him that he doesn’t want to spend the night curled up in the shower stall, listening to the wordless rumble of Obi-Wan’s voice and the useless screams of whatever pretty thing they’ve lured back to their room. He doesn’t want to be left alone tonight. “What if—what if I don’t want to?” he manages to ask, though he is unable to meet Obi-Wan’s eyes as he does.

“You want to stay here?” The man replies, surprise coloring his tone. Anakin nods, and hears Kenobi’s sharp intake of breath. “Well, of course, my love,” he says, stepping away from Anakin and dragging the desk chair closer to the bed. “I would be delighted to have you.”

Obi-Wan guides him into the chair before, with a last, lingering glance in his direction, turning his attention to their captive.

There is work to be done.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> At last we come to the end of this tale.
> 
> First, I want to take a moment to thank each and every one of you for reading and supporting me in this journey. This is my longest completed fic to date, and it has been quite the wild ride over the last year. I will likely continue to dabble in this universe, so keep an eye out for various one-shots or short stories in the future! I am always accepting prompts on my [Tumblr](http://glare-gryphon.tumblr.com/) if there is something in particular you would like to see! 
> 
> Secondly, you may notice some new links under the related works section! Our wonderful friend [Kurenaino](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Kurenaino/pseuds/Kurenaino) has written two more lovely supplemental works that I would definitely recommend you check out if you have not already! She is also open to ideas, if there is something you would like to see from her!
> 
> Again, thank you so much for all your support! We hope to see you around!

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Genesis](https://archiveofourown.org/works/10862250) by [Kurenaino](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kurenaino/pseuds/Kurenaino)
  * [Negotiator](https://archiveofourown.org/works/12038118) by [Kurenaino](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kurenaino/pseuds/Kurenaino)
  * [My Neighbor's Keeper](https://archiveofourown.org/works/12180426) by [Kurenaino](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kurenaino/pseuds/Kurenaino)
  * [Heart of Darkness](https://archiveofourown.org/works/12239013) by [Kurenaino](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kurenaino/pseuds/Kurenaino)




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